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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25046596">Pas de deux</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belphegor/pseuds/Belphegor'>Belphegor</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>One-Step, Two-Step, Waltz [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work, The Mummy Series</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(Evy is only there for one chapter), 1910s, Bisexual Disasters, Bisexual Jonathan Carnahan, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Angst, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Threesome - F/M/M, eventual polyamory</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:20:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>71,700</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25046596</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belphegor/pseuds/Belphegor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Oxford, 1913: Jonathan enjoys fooling around with his best friend, a <i>lot</i>. Then panics a little because, as it turns out, they also very much enjoy making love to each other, and love is a much bigger secret to keep when even a simple kiss can send you both to prison. The dance is well worth figuring out the steps, though.</p><p>And then the two misfits meet a third...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan Carnahan/Original Male Character, Jonathan Carnahan/Original Male Character/Original Female Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>One-Step, Two-Step, Waltz [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780654</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>119</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>Something to be said for curiosity – The ire of Monty Carpenter – What happens in a boathouse cabinet – Cicero is returned home</i><br/>(NSFW)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If he is honest with himself – he can be sometimes – Jonathan Carnahan has been thinking about kissing Tommy Ferguson for a while. Not quite since they met, perhaps, but the idea keeps popping up in his head every now and then, often at inappropriate moments. Tommy has full lips that look just the right sort of soft, lovely round brown eyes, and a thick mop of blond hair anyone would love to run their hands through, if they were so inclined.</p><p>He almost did kiss Tommy, once, if indeed he can trust a vague memory made fuzzy by alcohol and tiredness. They’d been in his bed one night, seconds before sleep, and Tommy – half-closed eyes bright in the dark, smiling, warm – had asked him to say something in his mother’s tongue. Jonathan had looked at him, and (because being sozzled always seems to play merry hell with his mental filters) had blurted out, “I would really like to kiss you,” counting on the fact that Tommy did not speak Arabic. Fortunately, they’d fallen asleep right away. Kissing Tommy Ferguson for the first time is one memory Jonathan wants to keep, which won’t happen if he drank too much beforehand.</p><p>Jonathan’s always been curious. It’s a family trait, he supposes, considering who his parents are, what his baby sister is growing into. His own curiosity is less intellectual, more hedonistic; he’s always eager to discover new things he might enjoy, because life is just too short to focus on what doesn’t bring you pleasure. So when he’s twelve and the gardener’s son Billy has been staring at him with his face red a few times, he takes the other boy by the hand into the cupboard under the stairs and closes the door.</p><p>There’s a lot of things he’s forgotten, but holding this boy’s hands in his, feeling his warm breath on the space between his nose and his mouth, and kissing him with his eyes wide open even though it’s dark and he can’t see much – <em>this</em> he suspects he will never forget. Nor is he likely to forget what his father says when they get caught.</p><p>In a way, Jonathan is lucky it’s Father who opens the door, not the housekeeper. Mrs Pemberton would probably beat them both senseless. So would a lot of fathers, Jonathan surmises later in life. But as it turns out, John and Salwa Carnahan have seen a little bit more of the world than most members of the English gentry, and thus Jonathan’s hide remains untanned.</p><p>Instead, Father sends Billy back to his father and sits Jonathan down for a talk which proves quite significant, if – at the time – vaguely worrying and incredibly embarrassing.</p><p>“I suppose that conversation was overdue anyway.” Father runs a hand over his long face, making his moustache droop then spring back up. He looks as though he wishes to be anywhere else but there. That’s fair. So does Jonathan. “There are few rules to the matters of the heart, my boy,” he continues, “but they are important. Since you seem so eager to start, listen and listen well.</p><p>“First, always make sure you both want the same thing. I’m not saying ‘be sure’, I’m saying ‘<em>make</em> sure’. People have a tendency to forget that part and assume the other wants the same things and is there for the same reasons.</p><p>“Which brings me to the second point – you are not to, erm, dally with household staff. It’s unfair to them. Do you know how many girls get sacked every day because the young gentleman of the house wanted a bit of fun? And do you know what would have happened to young William if you’d been a bit older and someone else had discovered you? He would have been sent away in disgrace and probably never have found honest employ.</p><p>“That’s the third point. Son –” Here Father stops, sighs, and looks at Jonathan again. “Men aren’t meant to… to like other men. But some do anyway. Such, um, proclivities are tolerated in some parts of the world and frowned upon in others. The penalty in this country is particularly severe. So if… Whatever you do, do <em>not</em> get caught. The only safety lies in secrecy.”</p><p>Jonathan nods, his cheeks flaming, and flees. All three rules remain etched in his mind. No one will ever catch him again.</p><p>He never learns whether Father told Mother about the incident or not, and even years later he never finds the nerve to ask, because it would mean running the risk of having his mum look at him with disgust or disappointment. While he knows he’s a little too lackadaisical and often doesn’t take things seriously enough for his parents’ tastes, the last thing Jonathan wants is to warrant that kind of look. His father is awkward and sometimes a little aloof, but since that’s the way he also acts around Evy when the both of them aren’t lost in enthusiastic discussions about dead pharaohs and ancient texts, at least Jonathan knows he’s tolerant, to some extent, of his son’s inclinations, though he finds them embarrassing and dangerous.</p><p>Evy never finds out, despite their closeness. He’s used to telling her a lot of things and her figuring out most of the rest – his sister has the sharpest brain of anyone he knows despite the fact that she’s almost six years younger than he is – but that’s the one secret he knows he can never let her unearth. At first, it’s because one just doesn’t broach this kind of subject with younger children; then it’s because Jonathan knows, as with his mother, that he couldn’t live with his sister looking at him like he’s something less than human. She might not; she probably would not, really. Her heart is just as enormous as her brain and there’s a definite possibility he’ll always have a place in it no matter what. But there is a tiny chance she <em>might</em>, and that’s one gamble he will never make, despite the odds.</p><p>Jonathan takes his father’s advice to heart, especially the third point, because it applies to so much more than fun encounters with a modicum of clothing on.</p><p>Later he discovers the beauty of a girl’s breasts, the warm curve of a shapely hip, the mass of hair that’s so fun to unpin and run his hands through. He also discovers the joy of trailing kisses along a stubbly jaw, warm, strong hands running over his own frame, the thrill of pressing groins together and feeling the body against him have the same reaction he has. Why have to choose when there is so much delight to find in both pursuits, as long as one is discreet?</p><p>So when he and Tommy are studying one night in the Oxford Arms and the little voice that often whispers in his ear <em>Kissing Tommy Ferguson would be positively spiffing, you know</em> comes back, stronger than ever, Jonathan decides to make an excuse, any excuse, and find out if Tommy would like to kiss him.</p><p>The result exceeds all his expectations. By far.</p>
<hr/><p>The morning after is like any morning after they drink rather a lot and end up in Jonathan’s room – and his bed – because it’s on the ground floor and Tommy doesn’t want to face the two flights of stairs to his own room. They have to get up, wash up, pick a clean collar and cuffs, and leg it to their respective classes. The difference – which, admittedly, is significant – is that they wake up entangled around each other, naked as the day they were born, in a room that smells so musky Jonathan has no choice but to take the time to air before they go. Only the perspective of being late for class and facing the scorn of their professors keeps them from exploring more of what they started the night before. But there’ll be time for that later, he thinks.</p><p>As it turns out, with the end of term and assorted exams and assignments looming in the near distance, time is a luxury, and scarce, at that. Especially for Tommy, who doesn’t have the funds Jonathan knows <em>he</em> can fall back on and whose career – and indeed, life – hangs on his eventual graduating from university.</p><p>Tommy does find the time to kiss Molly Goddard, though, with Jonathan’s blessing and even encouragement, which makes Tommy happy and Jonathan not nearly as jealous as he feared he’d be. Much as their kiss in the pub and everything that ensued has left him longing for more, his friendship with Tommy is too important to risk over a tumble in the sheets, or a girl for that matter. Besides, it’s not like they’ve promised each other anything. Which is sort of a relief, to tell the truth, as they can’t, really. They weren’t supposed to break the law in the first place.</p><p>But Jonathan has always had a slightly… elastic relationship with legality. What’s one more law to break, for him who has at least cracked so many already?</p><p>Tommy and Molly dance around each other a while, then break things off peacefully. Now <em>this</em> makes Jonathan a little jealous. The few dalliances he’s had – as much as he likes to pretend he is a ladies’ man, his actual little black book counts embarrassingly few pages – often ended on either a slap in the face or, worse, a disappointed look. Shrugging those off takes a lot more work.</p><p>Afterwards, he and Tommy happily find each other in his room, or, more rarely, in Tommy’s room, and between gruelling study sessions take a few too short moments to themselves. Coming off locked in each other’s embrace with his fingers tangled in Tommy’s thick blond hair and Tommy’s fingers digging into his back is the most wonderful way to blow off steam.</p><p>The fact that it also might be one of the safest should probably make Jonathan stop and think before other ways to blow off steam come to mind.</p><p>But is it really his fault when even pranks that start as a harmless bit of mischief blow up into ridiculous proportions?</p><p>This particular question is at the forefront of his mind right now as he runs and runs to escape the wrath of Monty Carpenter, who might have laughed at finding a goat in his quarters but is – understandably, Jonathan has to concede – furious at finding it munching on the long Cicero speech he spent hours translating. He pelts down the street, Monty huffing like a bull behind him, and when he turns round the corner near the Bodleian<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote1sym" id="sdfootnote1anc" name="sdfootnote1anc"><sup>1</sup></a> he almost literally bumps into Tommy who’s coming back from the Turf early.</p><p>“Jon, what’s—”</p><p>“No time! Sorry!”</p><p>Tommy looks behind at Monty coming up hot, howling imprecations, and the next second Jonathan isn’t fleeing alone. Whether it’s a question of solidarity in the face of adversity or because Monty – like most of their fellow students – knows he and Jonathan are friends and might not be very particular about whom he takes vengeance on, Tommy is now running like mad along with him in the fading December sunset. Their feet barely touch the ground as they take a sharp turn and fly past the Radcliffe Camera, down Magpie Lane, through Christ Church Meadows, until Jonathan remembers the boathouses and makes one last dash for it.</p><p>They both rush into their Boat Club boathouse through the door they know is rarely locked properly, spot the cabinet where they store oars, flags, and various paraphernalia, and climb into it as one man.</p><p>It takes a while for Jonathan to be convinced he isn’t going to die from sheer exertion. His eyes are watering, his chest is burning, and from the wheezing sounds right next to him Tommy is in the same state. The only reason they’re not crumpled on the floor of the cabinet is because there’s barely enough room to stand in the first place. They reach a compromise and lean into the only space that doesn’t have shelves or racks, practically squeezed together between the door and the wall opposite. There is just enough room that Jonathan can fumble with the buttons of his coat and jacket and open both to breathe better. Loosening his collar and his tie takes more work, especially since his hands can’t seem to stop shaking.</p><p>After a while, he hears Tommy whisper, “Was that Monty Carpenter?”</p><p>“It was,” croaks Jonathan, racing heart starting to calm a little. His coat is feeling less heavy, almost enough to let him start to register the cold – although, with the two of them crammed in that narrow cabinet, it’s much warmer than it is outside, out in the meadow, under the trees winter has bared of leaves.</p><p>“What’d you do this time?”</p><p>“Why do you automatically assume I did something?”</p><p>Tommy lets out a puff of something between a sigh and a snort, warm against Jonathan’s cheek.</p><p>“Because I know you?”</p><p>Jonathan huffs.</p><p>“Rather rich coming from Mr ‘Let’s break into Edwin Farbow’s room to fill his slippers with toothpaste and short-sheet his bed’.”</p><p>“I regret nothin’. Farbow is a twat and he deserved a lot more than what he got. It takes a lot to make Monty this angry, though. What did you do?”</p><p>Jonathan tells him. Tommy visibly tries to hold in his laughter, but Jonathan can feel him shaking. It’s lucky the cabinet is built into the boathouse wall.</p><p>“Mate, when you luck out, you do luck out.”</p><p>And Jonathan laughs, as well, because the thought of a goat conscientiously ruminating Cicero really is absurd, and a lot funnier when Monty Carpenter isn’t baying after him like a one-man pack of hounds.</p><p>“Where <em>is</em> old Monty, anyway?” he asks, half because he wonders if it’s safe to come out and half as a diversion. Being wedged against Tommy is starting to drive him to distraction and making him wish they were somewhere more comfortable – and private. Thank goodness this didn’t happen before they fell into their arrangement. Either of them might have just died of pure mortification.</p><p>“I don’t know.” Tommy squirms a little, and the rhythm of Jonathan’s heart picks up speed again. Clearly his friend is having the same problem he has, just as insistent. “But I would wait a little before returnin’ to the college if I were you. At least until it’s completely dark.”</p><p>He’s right. Part of the reason why it’s so fun to play stupid pranks on Monty Carpenter is that Monty usually moves on to other matters fast enough. He won’t have forgiven Jonathan tomorrow but he will have calmed down enough to not punch him. But if Jonathan stays in that cabinet with Tommy for much longer…</p><p>Jonathan dredges up his oft-ignored voice of reason to consult it. As it happens, it doesn’t help, because his voice of reason is currently of two minds.</p><p>On one hand, if he comes back to the halls right now, he runs the risk of facing an irate Monty, with all the painful consequences that entails.</p><p>On the other hand, if he stays, he runs the risk of starting something he’s not sure he can refrain from finishing and which is not really wise to finish anyway, not here, not like this, without the safety of a lock and a change of clothes.</p><p>On one hand, the worse Monty can do is beat him up, and since he’s been treated to a few drubbings in his time he knows he can survive another one. Probably.</p><p>On the other hand, they appear to have lost Monty at some point between Merton Field and Christ Church Meadow, the riverbank and the boathouses are usually deserted on winter evenings, and Tommy’s body, a man-sized furnace by now, is so tantalisingly, excruciatingly close… Maybe they can figure out something after…?</p><p>There is only half a step – two, maybe three inches – separating him from Tommy, but Jonathan can feel the heat emanating from him like a blazing August afternoon. Tommy smells like he usually smells after working at the Turf, beer and cigarette smoke almost masking the splash of cologne he dabbled on his jaw this morning. Jonathan can feel his breath on his mouth, as fast and uneven as his own. The air between them stills.</p><p>And then he feels Tommy’s hand brush against his hip and his brain short-circuits.</p><p>Second option it is.</p><p>It’s almost completely dark in the cabinet, but Jonathan doesn’t need light. His hands find Tommy’s waist and slither under his coat, under his jacket, up his chest and his neck, and when he finally has his head between his hands Jonathan leans in and kisses him. Tommy moans against his mouth, but his own hands have found Jonathan’s sides and he draws him close enough Jonathan can feel both their erections rub together through the four layers of two pairs of trousers and two pairs of pants.</p><p><em>Oh, good Heavens</em>.</p><p>“We shouldn’t,” Tommy rasps, his hands already on Jonathan’s waistcoat’s buttons.</p><p>Jonathan nods fervently, taking a tiny step back so he can take care of those on Tommy’s trousers. “We really shouldn’t.”</p><p>They switch when they’re done, and Jonathan’s breath hitches when Tommy slides his hands along his sides under his trousers, past the waistcoat and the shirt-tails, and grasps his hips over his undergarments.</p><p>“This is a bad idea.”</p><p>“The worst.”</p><p>Braces are unclipped, and gravity does the rest. A tiny part of Jonathan’s mind that isn’t exclusively preoccupied with the body squashed against his whispers snidely that they must look ridiculous wearing their heavy topcoats and their trousers about their ankles. He finds it easy to ignore. It’s dark, nobody is around – thank goodness – and frankly, he’s a little too out of his mind with desire for sartorial considerations.</p><p>Somewhere in the haze he’s practically already lost in, Jonathan finds the clarity to regret they can’t disrobe completely so he can taste Tommy’s skin like he usually does. His nipples are especially sensitive and he makes the most splendid noises when Jonathan turns his attention to them. To make up for it, he presses impossibly close against Tommy and <em>grinds</em>, and oh, this is the next best thing.</p><p>Tommy answers with a high-pitched whine, quiet enough to not make it past the confines of the cabinet, just enough to send Jonathan’s pulse racing to near-uncomfortable levels. His hands stop kneading Jonathan’s hips for a second as he undoes just enough buttons to loosen Jonathan’s drawers a little, then plunge under the fabric, barely-warm skin on feverishly hot skin.</p><p>Jonathan gives a full-body shiver. As badly as he wants to put his hands on Tommy and do his own kneading and rubbing, there’s simply not enough space for that, and he retaliates by rubbing his entire body against him as though it’s going to put out the fire rather than fuel it. Their mouths crash into each other’s, messily, greedily. Jonathan catches Tommy’s lip between his teeth and gets a very satisfying groan in response. Tommy’s hair is drenched with sweat at his temples, just like his is, and Jonathan reaches to run a hand though it and draw him even closer.</p><p>As usual, they are almost completely silent. They always have to be – it wouldn’t be much of an exaggeration to say it’s a question of life and death. The only sounds coming from the closed cabinet are shuffling, heavy panting, and the odd low moan that escapes one or the other sometimes: nothing loud enough to draw a potential passer-by inside the boathouse.</p><p>But then Tommy’s hands shift a little, and suddenly they’re moving downwards, stroking, caressing, parting…</p><p>Oh. <em>Oh</em>.</p><p>Jonathan is no stranger to this kind of entertainment, not completely, but he’s usually the one whose fingers sometimes end up where they probably shouldn’t. To be honest he’s not that much more experienced than Tommy in that respect, especially in being on the, um, receiving end of things. So maybe it’s not so surprising that Nervousness is tiptoeing back when he thought Want and Need have driven everything else from his brain.</p><p>Jonathan realises he’s holding his breath. Tommy goes very still; his fingers move away a few inches.</p><p>“Do you…” His voice is a hoarse whisper against Jonathan’s ear. He sounds too breathless to finish the question.</p><p>Jonathan takes a moment to examine the state of things in his head – and elsewhere. As difficult as coherent thought is right now, this is important.</p><p>The second he figures out what he wants, he pushes Tommy until he has him pressed flat against the wall – Tommy gives a sort of hiccup – and buries his face in his neck, licking the sweat that gathers under his jaw.</p><p>“I really do,” he almost growls, and feels Tommy’s heart thumping in his chest, right against his own.</p><p>Tommy’s hands start to move again, slowly, until they reach the place where they stopped earlier. A single finger continues, circles, caresses, and gently – oh so gently – eases its way in.</p><p>Jonathan stops breathing altogether.</p><p>It’s an odd feeling, that’s for certain. It doesn’t hurt like he thought it would; Tommy is being deliberately slow, as if he’s ahead of a race and waiting for Jonathan to catch up. Maybe he is, because when Jonathan’s breath comes back, his finger moves a little further and –</p><p>oh –</p><p><em>ooh</em> –</p><p>so <em>that’s</em> why –</p><p>Jonathan doesn’t even have time to finish his thought before he gets hit by a wave of bliss so tremendous it’s a wonder he doesn’t come off right here and now. He barely has the presence of mind to slip a hand between them to grab Tommy’s prick through the fabric of his drawers – his shoulder gives an uncomfortable little <em>pop</em> that hardly registers – before Tommy adds a second finger. Despite Jonathan’s best efforts, a low whimper escapes him.</p><p>His hand squeezes, a knee-jerk reflex, and he has the satisfaction of hearing Tommy moan his name and feeling him sag in his arms. The next second, Tommy moves his fingers like <em>so</em> and the crest of the wave catapults Jonathan into the air.</p><p>When he finally floats back down, he’s out of breath, light-headed, and so weak he suspects the only reason he’s still on his feet is because he’s holding on with all his might to Tommy, who is leaning his full weight on the wall, both hands still clutching Jonathan’s buttocks inside his drawers.</p><p>They’re both trembling and panting harder than they were when they ran inside. The air is close, thick with the scent of sweat and spend. It’s enough to turn a fellow’s head.</p><p>“B—bloody hell, Tommy,” Jonathan gasps when he finally recovers the power of speech. “That was – th—that was –”</p><p>“So good,” Tommy concludes, his voice hoarse. “So very, very good.”</p><p>He stops, takes a gulp of air, and adds, “Let’s never do that again.”</p><p>Jonathan is so flabbergasted that he stares at him with his mouth open, even though there’s no way Tommy can see him in the dark. Tommy must have sensed something was amiss, though, because he hurries to clarify, “I mean fool around in semi-public places. Jesus, Jon, what if someone had heard—?”</p><p>Relief floods through Jonathan, who lets his forehead fall on Tommy’s shoulder and nods. “Agreed. Speaking of, do you hear anything?”</p><p>They both do their best to calm their loud, erratic breathing and listen; when they’re absolutely certain to be alone, Jonathan pushes the door of the cabinet and they step out. The cold air slaps him in the face, on his bare thighs, and makes him shiver in his drenched shirt. Thankfully it also clears his mind and lends some strength back to his limbs.</p><p>Night has fallen while they were occupied. It’s not as dark inside the boathouse as it was inside the cabinet, not with moonlight trickling in through the windows, but it is just as cold as outside, and quite as damp. Their breaths hang in the air like tiny clouds for a few seconds every time they exhale.</p><p>They take a look at each other and goggle. And burst out laughing, like the two idiots they are.</p><p>They look <em>thoroughly debauched</em>. Their jackets and waistcoats hang wide open and their coats have slid off their shoulders; Tommy’s in particular appears to have gathered every speck of dust and cobweb clinging to the wall. They’re both drenched in sweat, dishevelled, unkempt, holding their trousers halfway up their thighs. Their respective drawers are sticky; a drop or two of the stuff even splattered up on their shirts. It’s getting cold and viscous and stiffening up as it dries. Thank God none of it seems to have got elsewhere. It’s simply hell to wash it off tweed.</p><p>Tommy comes to his senses first and shakes his head.</p><p>“Madness. Sheer madness,” he says, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket to clean his fingers.</p><p>The reason for that makes Jonathan blush a little and grin a lot. Then the thought occurs that petroleum jelly is easily obtainable at any chemist’s. Against all odds, despite his exhaustion, his wobbly legs, and the discomfort of a cold, rather soggy pair of pants halfway down his hips, a tiny spark flares back to life somewhere in his lower abdomen.</p><p>The experience was positively sensational.</p><p>He can’t wait to repeat it in more suitable conditions.</p><p>“Well, Tommy old chap,” says Jonathan, still grinning like an idiot, “you’re just not looking at the positive side of things.”</p><p>Tommy’s expression shifts from the glum look he’s giving his own drawers to wary curiosity.</p><p>“Oh, really?”</p><p>“Mh-hm. I thought my evening would consist in getting thrashed by Monty Carpenter for the admittedly annoying crime of ruining his Latin translation, but here I am, having made a triumphant escape and thoroughly enjoyed our little escapade.”</p><p>Tommy gives a wry smile.</p><p>“Well, <em>I</em> thought my evening would ‘consist’ in a quiet night crammin’ on chryselephantine sculptures<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote2sym" id="sdfootnote2anc" name="sdfootnote2anc"><sup>2</sup></a> and Plutarch’s <em>Life of Alexander</em>. But here I am, with ruined underthings and facing a twenty-minute walk back to me room in the freezing cold, because I sure as hell am not gettin’ a cab like this.”</p><p>Then, just as the first tendrils of cold dread start coiling up in Jonathan’s stomach, he tilts his head to the side and says with a fond smile, “I do prefer your company to Plutarch’s, though.”</p><p>Jonathan grins again, relieved, and kisses him on impulse. Tommy’s lips are warm, just as soft as he imagined they would be before he got to find out.</p><p>“Bugger Plutarch anyway,” he says, more cockily than he feels, and Tommy laughs at the familiar phrase. “Let’s smarten up and go home. Hopefully Monty will have had enough and given up.”</p><p>Smartening up takes time. All the buttons they struggled with in the heat of the moment need to be done back up, shirts need straightening up, braces need to reconnect with trousers, and at some point their soiled drawers just cannot be ignored any longer. They hitch up their trousers over them with grimaces of distaste; Jonathan, who has one or two buttons more to do up than Tommy in that area, maintains he has it worse. The bloody buttons are cold and slippery and oh God, how can something that feels so good at the moment prove so revolting afterwards?</p><p>“You weren’t whingin’ like that earlier,” Tommy remarks.</p><p>Jonathan glares at him. Tommy just stares back with mock innocence. He’s really good at that. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.</p><p>He’s right, though. And as uncomfortable as he is right now, as endless as the walk back to Turl Street is going to feel with the dangerous shame hiding under their trousers, and as difficult even looking at this cabinet will be the next time they have rowing practice, Jonathan doesn’t regret a thing. Saying he had a good time would be an understatement the size of the ill-fated <em>Titanic</em>. Besides, what Tommy just did with his fingers – and the prospects that entails – bodes very well for future occasions.</p><p>Good Lord, he really shall have to buy that jar of petroleum jelly.</p><p>They wash their hands in the icy river and head back to their lodgings in a way they hope doesn’t give away the fact that they’re both terrified at the thought of coming face to face with another human being. Fortunately for them, it’s quite late when they finally make it home. The halls are dark and deserted and Monty Carpenter has long since abandoned the chase, so Jonathan and Tommy part ways at the foot of the stairs with a lightning-quick kiss and the heady feeling of getting away with murder, at the very least.</p>
<hr/><p>The next day, Jonathan gets up before dawn so he can find the goat and return it to the Parks<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote3sym" id="sdfootnote3anc" name="sdfootnote3anc"><sup>3</sup></a> and the groundskeeper he stole it from. The animal squints at him with a very human and all-too-familiar kind of suspicion, but lets Jonathan take its rope and lead it to its pen.</p><p>“Bye, Cicero,” he says before he leaves. “Thank you for your assistance, old thing.”</p><p>The newly-named Cicero placidly munches on the hedge nearby, still staring at Jonathan in a way that clearly says he’s a complete arse.</p><p>It doesn’t seem to have any objection to the name, though, so Jonathan can definitely put yesterday’s events in the ‘good day’ category.</p>
<hr/>
<p></p><div>
  <p class="sdfootnote"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote1anc" id="sdfootnote1sym" name="sdfootnote1sym">1</a>The Bodleian Library, the main research library in Oxford and one of the oldest in Europe.</p>
</div><div>
  <p class="sdfootnote"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote2anc" id="sdfootnote2sym" name="sdfootnote2sym">2</a>Sculptures made of gold and ivory, of very high status in Ancient Greece. Few have survived to modern times.</p>
</div><div>
  <p class="sdfootnote"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote3anc" id="sdfootnote3sym" name="sdfootnote3sym">3</a>Oxford University Parks. They play cricket there, among other things. I was there in April 2003 and watched a match from afar with the Best Beloved and a friend – and, naturally, didn’t understand a single thing.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>No goats were harmed in the making of this chapter!</p><p>(And whether her husband did tell her or not, Salwa Carnahan 100% knew that her son liked both girls and boys and did not love him ANY less for it.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>Christmas vacation – Of the contents of a drawer in the bedside table – A first time – Words, felt and unsaid</i><br/>(NSFW)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They restrict their illicit activities to their rooms after the boathouse incident. His father’s advice about safety in secrecy stays with Jonathan a lot these days, and often makes him check the lock twice before they get up to any kind of hanky-panky.</p><p>The snug in the Oxford Arms is tempting; indeed, any nook and cranny of the college, of which there is rather a lot, might do, as would some of the darkest corners of the various libraries around town. There <em>is</em> precedent – and even current, as demonstrated by the time Jonathan almost walks in on R. P. Dawes and Alf Kempthorne snogging the breath from each other’s lungs in the “Ecclesiology” section of their college’s library. But if his and Tommy’s frantic groping in the boathouse cabinet proves something, it’s that both of them like to finish what they start. A walk back to their rooms with suspiciously-placed stains on their trousers in broad daylight is not a picture either likes contemplating.</p><p>Besides, with the Christmas holidays starting next week, any sort of hanky-panky except a simple kiss is simply out of the question. There are essays and translations to churn out, gruelling exams to revise for and sit through, to such an extent that by the time the last day of Michaelmas term finally ends and the first day of the holidays dawns, most first-years are grey in the face and thoroughly drained.</p><p>Jonathan and Tommy are no exception. At least Tommy has a week free from working at the Turf – he’s due to resume work after Boxing Day. Knowing this, Jonathan booked a train home no earlier than Christmas Eve. He is looking forward to seeing his parents and sister again, to sleeping in a room that is fully his own, to sauntering through the ridiculously big house he grew up in which somehow never manages to feel hollow and cold, even in the heart of winter. But he also knows Tommy will have to spend his Christmas here, in Oxford, and he’s reluctant to leave him alone more than he has to.</p><p>He hasn’t invited Tommy to spend Christmas with his family, and Tommy hasn’t asked, either. Neither of them would. Despite their respective mixed heritages and as much as some people might disagree with that, they remain Englishmen, and part of <em>that</em> heritage includes a fraction at least of the famous reserve. As close as they are, no matter how much they share – beers, books, beds, maybe even part of their souls – there are boundaries neither is willing to cross, and family is one of them. They both find comfort in knowing each takes the other exactly as he is, complicated family history or status and all.</p><p>It’s more than enough.</p>
<hr/><p>The first day of the Christmas holidays goes by in a flash. Jonathan sleeps through most of it, and when he wakes up, three quarters of the first-year student body are gone from the halls.</p><p>The second day he spends with Tommy, ambling around town in search of presents for their respective families, revelling in the fact that they don’t have anything to do at the moment – except for some homework, which Jonathan reckons can wait – and after dinner they retreat to the Oxford Arms for a pint.</p><p>When they walk out, it’s snowing, which makes Tommy stare in wide-eyed wonder.</p><p>“One would think you’ve never seen snow,” says Jonathan, amused. He doesn’t like snow much; he prefers the dry, hot wind of Egypt. Many of his longer holidays from boarding school were spent in Cairo with his parents and Evy. “I find that hard to believe, considering you’re from up North and all that.”</p><p>Tommy shakes his head.</p><p>“Liverpool is right by the sea. When we do get a bit of snow it melts right away, and when it doesn’t it gets dirty quickly.”</p><p>“No snowball fights, then? That’s a shame.”</p><p>“Bit, yeah.”</p><p>Watching the white flakes dance in the halos around the lamplights is rather lovely, all things considered, but Jonathan is happy to leave the cold behind and hurry back to the halls.</p><p>He’s been a little on edge all evening. Hopefully Tommy hasn’t noticed.</p><p>Knowing him, he has, but is waiting to see if whatever is bothering Jonathan is a cause for concern.</p><p>So Jonathan opens the door to his room, shucks his shoes and throws his wet coat on the peg, and says, trying to sound more offhand and less like an excited cat on helium, “I have an idea.”</p><p>Tommy stares at him, just a little wary. All right, fair point. Not all of Jonathan’s ideas turn out to be good ideas.</p><p>Jonathan waves a hand impatiently. “No, hear me out. It’s more like a plan, actually. Blast it, no, not <em>that</em> complicated, just –”</p><p>Tommy is still staring at him, but now there’s amusement dancing in his eyes, like he’s holding back laughter. <em>Well</em>, Jonathan thinks with an internal huff, <em>that’s nice. If you can’t even count on your best friend to ignore it when you’re making an arse of yourself, what is the world coming to?</em></p><p>“So,” Tommy says finally, taking off his own coat and scarf and hanging both next to Jonathan’s, “what’s that ‘plan’ of yours? I hope it includes a nightcap. Don’t know about you, but I could do with one.”</p><p>Jonathan’s plan doesn’t, as a matter of fact, though it could – a glass of Scotch might be exactly what’s needed right now. But that goes out the window as he finally makes up his mind, grabs Tommy by the lapels of his jacket, and kisses him.</p><p>Once the first second of surprise has passed, Tommy responds eagerly, draping one arm around his waist and the other on the nape of his neck, just above his collar. Jonathan makes a happy noise, relishing the fact that he doesn’t have to worry about keeping quiet for once – the entire floor is theirs and the ceilings are thick – and deepens the kiss.</p><p>When they come up for air, pressed against each other and pleasantly aroused, Tommy gives a low chuckle.</p><p>“So that’s your plan, en’t it?”</p><p>“Part of my plan.”</p><p>“I like your plan. What’s next?”</p><p>Jonathan grins what he hopes is a roguish grin and locks the door.</p><p>“Well, Mr Ferguson, I was thinking we might take advantage of being virtually alone and have our wicked way with each other.”</p><p>He sounds utterly ridiculous, and Tommy snorts helplessly even as his hands fumble for Jonathan’s collar and tie.</p><p>“Why, Mr Carnahan,” he says, still half laughing, “I thought you’d never ask.” Then he sniggers again and asks, “Is that Austen enough for you?”</p><p>“Do shut up.” <em>Please don’t.</em> “What I have in mind is a little more risqué than Austen, I’ll have you know.”</p><p>Jonathan makes quick work of Tommy’s waistcoat buttons – the advantage of having long, nimble fingers – and pushes both waistcoat and jacket off Tommy’s shoulders. It’s just like any other time they’ve engaged in mutual exploration: there is laughing, kissing, delicious friction, and a certain amount of tripping over one’s own trousers. Tonight that amount is slightly more significant than usual. Not because they overindulged in lager, but because Jonathan is looking forward to exploring new territories and the prospect is making his heart hammer in his chest, equal parts anticipation and nervousness.</p><p>Gradually divesting Tommy of his clothes is always unmitigated delight. He is somewhat self-conscious about his body, but Jonathan loves the freckles scattered across his shoulders on the pale skin that never sees the sun, the delicate hairs that curl on his chest, and he especially loves how soft he feels. There are few things more delightful than grasping Tommy Ferguson’s hips in the height of pleasure and squishing and squeezing until you find the hard muscle underneath.</p><p>The cold and the snow outside the walls are very, very far behind them as Jonathan hops on one foot to remove his socks and garters, still doing his best to keep pressed to Tommy as close as he can. Only their drawers stand between them and pleasure now, and possibly their own selves too as Tommy takes off his pants only to trip over them, sending him and Jonathan tumbling to the floor.</p><p>This has them both in stitches. They’re still laughing when they hit the bed.</p><p>Jonathan concentrates on the skin on Tommy’s chest until Tommy’s breath catches, wondering how to bring up the little jar in the drawer of his bedside table without dying of embarrassment on the spot. He’s going to have to at some point; need is thrumming through his entire person from head to toe, and if it was anyone else right now, doing those things with him, Jonathan would be mortified at how much he <em>wants</em> Tommy. His entire body is singing out in the key of <em>wantwantYESpleaseNOW</em> with little variations on the theme.</p><p>Fortunately, either the gods of carnal relations between idiots are with him, or Tommy wants this just as much as he does. Jonathan feels one hand slip between his legs, and lower, and <em>past</em>, and dear God <em>yes</em> –</p><p>Tommy pulls out his hand. Jonathan, who’s lying on top of him with his nose in his hair, lets his head drop in frustration.</p><p>“Why on Earth did you stop?”</p><p>“This seems like a really bad time to ask, but do you happen to have something on ‘and that would make things… more enjoyable?”</p><p>
  <em>Oh thank goodness.</em>
</p><p>“Drawer, bedside table.”</p><p>Tommy takes out the jar and gives him a quizzical grin. “You really did plan this out.”</p><p>Jonathan can’t help a breathless chuckle.</p><p>“Please. Give me some credit for coming up with at least one idea that’s not completely disastrous. Now will you please open this and bloody continue where you left off?”</p><p>They switch places, Jonathan on his back while Tommy applies a generous dose on his fingers. The next second, Jonathan gasps and shivers, making Tommy go still and look at him in alarm.</p><p>“What’s wrong? I hardly even touched anythin’.”</p><p>“It’s <em>cold</em>,” Jonathan whines. Tommy shakes his head with a grin and resumes his southwards activities.</p><p>The jelly, although the first feel of it sent goosebumps all over Jonathan’s skin and not the good kind, does make things considerably easier. It also helps that Tommy’s finger, then fingers, are just as slow and careful as they felt when Jonathan got his first taste of them, so to speak.</p><p>It still feels strange, though not unpleasant. In fact, the oddness is fading, slowly making way for a unique heat that suffuses his body and makes his toes curl.</p><p>Jonathan closes his eyes. He opens them again when he hears Tommy ask, a grin in his voice, “You’re not fallin’ asleep on me, are you?”</p><p>“Oh, bugger off,” he replies automatically before his ears catch up and he groans. At least, the way things stand, there’s little chance he can go any redder.</p><p>Tommy is indeed grinning.</p><p>“With pleasure,” he says with an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows, and Jonathan groans again, because <em>really</em>.</p><p>Tommy’s fingers slide out, leaving him with an odd sense of loss. Jonathan hears him grab the little jar again and hiss – <em>Hah, told you it was cold</em> – before he stops and looks at Jonathan for confirmation.</p><p>Jonathan gives a small nod. Tommy settles himself between his thighs, raises his hips a little, and – very, <em>very</em> gently – starts to sink into him.</p><p>It is A Lot.</p><p>Jonathan went to all-boys boarding schools. Even when one is not trying to look, it’s difficult not to get a good sense of one’s classmates’ anatomies when everyone shares dorms and shower space. He stopped worrying about the size of things when he realised there was an average and he was firmly in it. So is Tommy. For all that there’s more of him than there is of Jonathan, frame-wise – not that it’s hard, he’s all too aware he could be mistaken for a toast rack without a shirt on – they are more or less the same height, and the same, well, <em>size</em>, which is not <em>that</em> big, to be quite candid. Right now, though, that’s not what it feels like.</p><p>The world has stopped and shrunk until it’s just him, Tommy, and that incredible sensation. Which <em>is</em> a lot, but not too much, Jonathan suddenly realises. It just takes some getting used to.</p><p>And then Tommy shifts, which means his prick also shifts, about halfway inside. It sends a rush of <em>something</em> through Jonathan that he’s not quite equipped to handle, not yet. Like lightning, a thought flashes through his mind – <em>This is happening, actually happening, and oh good God how am I </em>ever<em> going to be able to look whoever calls me a cheeky bugger in the eyes</em> – and he almost bursts out laughing before Tommy sinks in a little deeper still and Jonathan gasps, mostly because he forgot to keep breathing.</p><p>They’re both drenched in sweat. Jonathan’s hands slip when he reaches to grab Tommy’s hips. They’re naked in the middle of a bedroom, but the heat is even greater than it was inside that tiny cabinet when they were suffocating in their winter suits and heavy coats.</p><p>Tommy lets out a shaky breath and pushes in a little more. For some reason this makes Jonathan’s entire body ring like the bells of Westminster Cathedral.</p><p>“A—all right there, Jon?” Tommy whispers. His face is scarlet and his arms are trembling, but he’s still barely moving.</p><p>“Hhh,” says Jonathan, because that’s about the extent of what he can utter right now. His skin feels too tight, his body too full to let him string a sentence together. He hopes the huge smile making its way across his face will convey to Tommy just how all right he feels. They’ve never been very vocal anyway, by necessity.</p><p>It does. Tommy lets out a small laugh, his eyes shining.</p><p>“Yeah, me too.”</p><p>Another movement from him almost sends Jonathan’s mind into the stratosphere, and Jonathan tries to pull him tighter, closer, deeper, and pushes himself up on his elbows. Thankfully, this is the moment his voice chooses to make a return of sorts.</p><p>“Let me – hang on, don’t move –”</p><p>“Jon, what are you – woah there, mind the—”</p><p>“I know, I know, just – help me up, I want to – <em>ouch</em>, that’s my—”</p><p>It takes some complicated shuffling; neither of them is used to such gymnastics. But after a while they are both sitting up, Jonathan on Tommy’s lap with his thighs around his waist, their arms locked around one another, and they can continue. Tommy gently pushes up, Jonathan slowly pushes down; they have found a rhythm they can dance to. They rock together gently, forehead to forehead, panting and getting drunk on each other’s breath. Sometimes they close their eyes, sometimes they stare at each other in wonder, exhilarated, astonished. Jonathan tastes sweat on Tommy’s lips every time he kisses him, his and Tommy’s mingled. This is too incredible for words.</p><p>According to everything they know, they should be ashamed of themselves. Jonathan, even with only a handful of brain cells still functioning, adamantly refuses to be.</p><p>Rhythm picks up a little; their heartbeats, impossibly, accelerate. More rocking, and suddenly pure pleasure shoots straight up Jonathan’s spine and he is lost, drowning, a fraction of his mind alone bobbing up on the surface and wondering <em>why oh why is it illegal, </em>why<em> when it feels so </em>good –</p><p>“I am – <em>aah</em> – I’m definitely goin’ to hell for this,” he hears Tommy moan, as though from afar, even though his head is tucked just in the crook of Jonathan’s neck, his hair tickling his nose. And then Tommy moves faster, and the sharp spike of ecstasy strikes once more.</p><p>If Jonathan was half in his right mind right now, he might reply with something along the lines of “Hold the door for me then, I’m coming” and snigger like a thirteen-year-old at the double entendre, or maybe something witty – a man can dream – like “The company down there is better anyway”.</p><p>Since he is most decidedly not, but rather is reduced to a mess of mostly incoherent open-mouthed noises, what actually leaves his mouth is a string of “Yes Tommy <em>aah</em> – good so bloody fantastic Tommy <em>keep going</em> – oh Tommy <em>oh Tom</em>—”</p><p>No structure, no punctuation, barely any verbs, Tommy might as well be shagging his grammar right out of his brain. He’s not even sure everything he’s babbling is English – some of it might be Arabic. Not like he can tell right now.</p><p>Their rhythm is rapid now, approaching frenetic. The bed base is squeaking in time with their thrusts, the headboard is thumping against the wall, and a shard of icy panic stabs its way through Jonathan’s delirium until he remembers <em>it’s all right, we’re alone, we’re safe, it’s all right…</em></p><p>And because they’re safe, and it’s all right, he can really let go properly for the first time – and he does with a wordless shout, lost in the throes of a climax the magnitude of which he’s never felt before. It rips through him, breaks him into pieces, and puts him back together in a state of feverish, exhausted stupefaction. No more muscles, no more tendons, no more bones; Jonathan might as well be made of liquid.</p><p>Hazily, he feels Tommy push into him a few times more before his own earthquake hits and he howls, his arms around Jonathan so tight as to almost crack a rib. Then his body gives out, as well, and he collapses on the bed with a deep sigh, taking Jonathan with him.</p><p>For a long time, they lie slantwise on the bed in a tangle of limbs, Tommy still inside Jonathan, Jonathan still holding him, both shuddering through aftershocks.</p><p>The wave that usually coincides with release is often powerful, but it’s never had that scope, that immensity. Right now Jonathan feels the only thing keeping his mind from floating away into the ether for good is the dull ache at the base of his spine, Tommy’s hands, still clasped around his ribcage, and the warm, uneven snuffling on the hollow of his throat. The heat Tommy shot into him when he came off is slowly cooling, but the feel of him – that extraordinary sensation of being filled, being full, being completed – remains.</p><p>Tommy’s breath hitches and starts again. Jonathan dimly catches something that sounds like his name.</p><p>Emotion swells inside his chest, which he’s not prepared for in the least. He’s too tired not to take it in stride, and sets a small kiss on the part of Tommy’s head his lips can reach. Tommy’s hair is tousled, wet with perspiration, and it falls over his eyes in messy snarls. His features are slack with what looks like awe, his face is glowing, his eyes are half-open, overbright. As a rule, saying a man is beautiful isn’t the done thing, but by God he is.</p><p>Subtler sensations gradually register again, like ripples on the sea after a storm. Jonathan can feel Tommy’s heart pounding against his chest, a finger brushing along the inside of his arm and stopping at the crook of his elbow, feather-light. The next moment, Tommy shifts his hips and pulls out of Jonathan with a low groan. His arms remain where they are, one pinned between Jonathan and the mattress, the other folded over him as he resumes his light caresses.</p><p>Whether it’s the sudden emptiness or the intimate, achingly soft touch, Jonathan’s throat tightens.</p><p>What just happened is not an overheated kiss, a fun tumble between the sheets, or an urgent bit of groping in the narrow confines of a cabinet. While it was just as playful and fun as most times he and Tommy let their hands and mouths run over each other, at some point it also started to feel… earth-shattering. The unprecedented jumble of sensations rocked Jonathan to the very core and left him ragged, wrung out, any semblance of coherent thought leaking out his ears except one: the sneaking suspicion that what they’ve just done has a name, and not necessarily the one used by a tribunal before it sends a pair of gents to gaol for life.</p><p>That’s a first, as well, for Jonathan. He’s never really made love with anyone before.</p><p>Immediately after the word coalesces in his mind, what follows is a blind panic because <em>no</em>, they’re not lovers, they’re friends, <em>they can’t afford to be anything else</em>.</p><p>Jonathan knows what lovers are like. They act as though the world doesn’t frown on even a married couple taking each other’s hand in public, as though nobody else can read the secret language of furtive glances or ‘accidental’ lingering touches, as though no one else can spot the way their eyes light up every time they catch one another’s gaze. The more they try to hide – how attracted they are, how much they want to shout to the whole world just how happy they are – the more obvious it is. His parents have been married for two decades and still share those secret smiles, that electric touch. The affection between them is so transparent it makes him and Evy roll their eyes sometimes; it horrifies their dragon of a housekeeper, who is very concerned about all things Proper. But then their marriage in itself is a veritable provocation to the entire English society; they can hardly be more scandalous than they already are.</p><p>If either Jonathan or Tommy were a girl, things would be awkward, but not nearly as dangerous. They might have to endure some good-natured teasing, a few salacious remarks; if they were found out they would <em>have</em> to marry whether they wanted to or not, because nobody wants a ‘soiled’ woman. But the police wouldn’t show up on the doorstep on an anonymous – or not – tip. Nobody cares what goes on behind closed doors between a man and a woman, a husband and wife – the law and the police don’t, anyway. Even when they should.</p><p>Since they are men – boys actually, according to some aspects of the law – they can’t dance that dance, they cannot allow themselves to be transparent. They have to be above suspicion, or (because Jonathan is well aware of his own questionable reputation) below suspicion. Conspiratorial glances and knowing grins may be safe, but anything that might betray how ridiculously fond he is of Tommy, how much he enjoys that soft, secret spot just above his right hip, how incredibly wonderful it feels to have Tommy fill him up until nothing else exists and he might just dissolve around him… Any sign at all, any hint…</p><p>Jonathan shudders.</p><p>Tommy presses a warm kiss to his collarbone, still idly running his fingers into the crook of his elbow, where the skin is soft and sensitive.</p><p>“Are you all right?” he murmurs.</p><p>The tenderness in his voice makes Jonathan’s chest ache.</p><p>“Bit more than that,” he replies around the lump in his throat. He clears his throat a little. “You?”</p><p>“Oh, yeah.” There is a <em>lot</em> in this “yeah”. From the sound of it Tommy is smiling the biggest smile known to man. When Jonathan glances down at what he can see of his face, he sees he’s not far off. “Does it hurt?”</p><p>“Not really, no.” It does throb a little, dully, as though pain is trying its best but is losing the fight in the face of such mind-blowing pleasure. It helps that they used the petroleum jelly and that Tommy’s fingers spent a long time downstairs, preparing him for what was to come. Literally, as it turns out.</p><p>Jonathan takes a long, deep breath. His left hand is splayed on Tommy’s left shoulder; he gently runs it down his arm a little, then up again.</p><p>“I wanted us to do that since that time in the boathouse,” he admits, because it’s true. He still remembers the excitement that surged through him when Tommy started paying attention to his back as well as his front, the sudden tide of <em>yespleaseMORE</em>. Jonathan isn’t typically the kind of person who uses the word ‘wanton’ with a straight face, but in this case he’s perfectly willing to admit that his behaviour in that cabinet – and indeed, just earlier – was nothing less.</p><p>“Well,” says Tommy, still smiling, “I think I’ve wanted to since… since that time after the pub.”</p><p>Jonathan blinks, somewhat surprised. “The first time we—?”</p><p>“Mh-hm.”</p><p>“My <em>word</em>.”</p><p>“Quite.”</p><p>Tommy’s use of this kind of upper-class accent and lingo is always tongue-in-cheek. It makes Jonathan snort in spite of himself, like he isn’t in the middle of an existential crisis.</p><p>Does he love Tommy?</p><p>Jonathan examines events past and present and knows he can only answer that with a firm and resounding <em>Yes</em>.</p><p>Is he <em>in love</em> with Tommy?</p><p>The only answer he can give to that question is running off screaming with his hands on his ears. Which he does acknowledge is neither a yes nor a no.</p><p>Maybe, if he ignores it, it will all go away and nobody will ever notice anything amiss.</p><p>(And maybe pigs will fly and the statue of Admiral Nelson will step down from his column and move to the French Riviera.)</p><p>Jonathan lets his head fall back on the mattress – they missed the pillow when they slumped down onto the bed – and sighs. Tommy raises his head to look at him curiously.</p><p>“Jon? Something wrong?”</p><p>“Nothing!” Jonathan squeaks. It’s a reflex. Then, aiming for a slightly more manly tone, he says, “I do believe you shagged the power of speech right out of me.”</p><p>Hmm. Maybe not that manly after all.</p><p>“I beg to differ,” says Tommy, his eyes shining – almost as bright as they were while they were making love, and oh God, they did make love and Jonathan is absolutely <em>not</em> ready to deal with that – while he retrieves his arm from under Jonathan and hoists himself up on an elbow. “You got <em>very</em> vocal at some point, mate.”</p><p>“So did you,” Jonathan points out, his cheeks flaming – a fact which Tommy is kind enough to not remark on. “Right there, at the end? You sounded like a one-man pack of wolves.”</p><p>Tommy laughs and shakes his head. Then he rests his chin on Jonathan’s chest and says thoughtfully, “I had no idea it would feel that good.”</p><p>“Neither did I,” Jonathan muses. “I hoped, though. I mean to say, everything else has been… rather splendid so far, hasn’t it?”</p><p>“It has.” There’s a softness in Tommy’s eyes, like a longing. “Makes me wish the building was almost empty more often.”</p><p>As far back as Jonathan can recall, he’s never been alone. There’s always been his parents, household staff, Evy, his schoolmates. There always has been at least someone in earshot to seek out or talk to. It’s never bothered him before.</p><p>It does now.</p><p>He presses a kiss in Tommy’s sweaty hair, because they’re alone and it’s safe, because he can. Tommy’s smile warms up.</p><p>“You know what, though? Christmas is almost a week from now. How about we enjoy it while it lasts?”</p><p>Jonathan pretends to ponder the question, as if he’s not wholly and heartily agreeing with it.</p><p>“If you mean right now, old chap, I’m afraid I shall have to decline. Not only I’m simply knackered, but you wouldn’t want me to walk funny for even longer than I probably will, would you?”</p><p>Tommy snorts, his face quite pink.</p><p>“Of course I don’t mean <em>now</em>, you idiot. The last thing I want is to move. Although we really should,” he adds with a sigh.</p><p>He looks down at the mess of limbs they make on the bed – one of Jonathan’s legs still partly across his hips, the other pinned under him, so half of his body is on Jonathan’s chest and half under him – and, with a grimace, at the mess, full stop.</p><p>They looked debauched the other day. Now they look… Well. Seed is plastered on them – on their stomachs, in their navels, and even a little on their chests, mingled with the drying sweat. It’s under them as well, from when Tommy drew out. It doesn’t feel quite as disgusting as wearing their drawers after their impromptu bit of fun in the boathouse cabinet, though.</p><p>They should look obscene. Maybe they do. Jonathan thinks otherwise.</p><p>Most of the time they share a wet cloth to clean themselves up and it’s enough, but this time Jonathan has to drag the tin bath from under the washbasin. Washing up takes a while, and despite the steady heat from the stove they’re both shivering when they run back under the covers.</p><p>They squeeze together on one side of the bed, Tommy’s back pressed against Jonathan, Jonathan wrapped around Tommy. His forearm rests in the curve of Tommy’s waist where the flesh is softest and most comfortable. Tommy’s hair, and indeed the whole of him, smells like sweat, a hint of cigarette smoke from the pub they walked out of what seems like ages ago, and Jonathan.</p><p>It feels good, warm, and <em>right</em>, and perhaps that’s all there is to it.</p><p>“I can’t believe we don’t have to worry about classes for three weeks,” mumbles Tommy once they’re warm again. “Three whole weeks! And then we’ll have to deal with Middle Kingdom funerary practices, the Epic of Gilgamesh, and slavery in the Roman Empire. Oh God, I still haven’t read Evans’ Nero biography.”</p><p>“Missing Plutarch’s <em>Lives</em> yet?” asks Jonathan with a smirk. That’s one of the classes they don’t have in common. After hearing Tommy gripe about it all trimester he’s glad he didn’t take it after all.</p><p>Tommy looks at him over his shoulder, his eyes bright in the dark.</p><p>“Bugger Plutarch,” he says with feeling and a fierce smile.</p><p>Jonathan draws him closer and laughs quietly.</p><p>“I’d rather you bugger me, if you don’t mind.”</p><p>The pun is truly awful, but Tommy’s chuckle resounds through his whole body and Jonathan’s as well.</p><p>Jonathan kisses the back of Tommy’s neck and falls asleep with his nose in his hair.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Fun fact: when I started on this story I figured – like Jon – that this was just a couple of friends having a good time, and that their relationship would be on again/off again and non-exclusive. And then I reached the middle of the chapter and thought, “...they just made love, didn’t they?” (<i>yes</i>, they very much did 💚)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>Another first time – Words, gasped and murmured – Christmas Evy – New year, new solutions</i><br/>(NSFW)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next week is one of the best in Jonathan’s life.</p><p>Maybe there <em>is</em> a god or two of carnal relations between idiots, because while there is a little bit of pain in the morning it’s not nearly enough to change his gait. He sits at breakfast with Tommy and the very few students still remaining on college grounds, amidst the usual mix of gossip and complaints about the workload and the recent exams, and does his best to look as though the two of them haven’t just committed a crime. Only, sometimes, he has to avoid Tommy’s eyes because he’s fairly sure everyone can read <em>I shagged Tommy Ferguson last night</em> on his face in letters ten feet tall. Upper-case, in bold and italics.</p><p>To his relief, as bad as Tommy is about telling an outright lie, nothing about his countenance suggests he spent his evening sharing anything else than a laugh and pint or two with Jonathan.</p><p>Jonathan takes it as a challenge and rises to it. By the end of the day, he can look Tommy in the eyes without going red at the echo of the ocean of bliss he nearly drowned in last night, and he can make lewd comments with the rest of his classmates without his mind jumping inadvertently to the taste of Tommy’s skin or the look in his eyes while he buried himself completely inside Jonathan. He’s quite proud of that fact.</p><p>The better they are at obfuscation, the less likely they are to get arrested and thrown in prison for the rest of their lives. Safety in secrecy.</p><p>He and Tommy fall into the rhythm of their own dance for the rest of the week. They still laugh at the silliest things, they still get in trouble and celebrate their escapes by grabbing a pint, and since it’s panto season and they have the time they also go into town to see a play or two. They still throw books at each other, easily dodged, and they still take each other’s arm when they get out of the pub on wobbly legs after closing time.</p><p>Being friends with Tommy Ferguson is the easiest thing in the world, even when one more or less always wanted to kiss him, even when one <em>has</em> kissed him and plans to keep on kissing him indefinitely.</p><p>Friends they were, friends they remain. That doesn’t change once they lock the door of Jonathan’s room – and it’s usually Jonathan’s room, because of its ideal location, far from the remaining first-year residents, and because his stove never runs out of coal. The fact that some of their afternoons (or mornings, or nights) are spent skin to skin, flushed with desire, pleasure, and the exhilarating feeling of getting away with transgression, naturally, stays safely behind that door, but that just means continuing what they started that night at the Oxford Arms. What <em>does</em> change once they turn the key is that they’re free to leave a hand on each other’s arm a little too long, to idly let their fingers brush each other’s thigh, to fall asleep nestled into each other’s shoulder as they plod through a biography of Nero or a treatise on sarcophagi in the Valley of the Kings.</p><p>So what if most friends don’t enjoy a bit of naked entertainment now and then? That doesn’t make Jonathan and Tommy any less friends, does it?</p><p>They use the petroleum jelly once or twice, only when they know they can take their time, and definitely enjoy it; but the night before the 24<sup>th</sup>, after they’ve been kissing, pressing, caressing, when all of Jonathan – body and soul – is happily singing <em>TommyTommyTommy</em>, Tommy gives him the jar and says, “Please?”</p><p>Jonathan, of the sure hands and nimble fingers, almost drops the jar.</p><p>He feels vindicated when the first touch of jelly has Tommy hiss and squirm. “I told you it was cold,” he says smugly, which makes Tommy shoot him a deadpan look before Jonathan’s finger finally goes from circling outside to inside and he inhales sharply.</p><p>Jonathan’s always been good with his hands. It comes in useful when he needs to sneak into the pantry to pilfer biscuits, investigate the contents of somebody’s pockets, or convince a door the lock is open. He started young and honed those skills for a long time. After a few times acquiring a bedmate or climbing into someone else’s bed in his later years at Eton, he came to realise that the very skills that made him a reasonably good thief – a combination of patience, adroit fingers, and the willingness to be subtle and slow – could also bring intense gratification to whoever he was fooling around with at the time.</p><p>Right now, that’s not what he intends to try with Tommy; he doesn’t want to bring him to the edge that way. Besides, Tommy is no blushing maid, but he didn’t go to Eton. There’s a few things he’s never had the opportunity to try before.</p><p>So Jonathan takes his time, stretched out next to Tommy, who is splayed on the mattress with his legs spread, chest heaving, clenched fists grasping at the sheet under him. Jonathan stops a few times, but Tommy urges him on every time with a half smile that becomes more and more relaxed. Jonathan slowly keeps going, stretching, loosening, easing in one finger, then two, then three, until Tommy – breathing a little more steadily but bright red from head to chest – tells him in no uncertain terms to please, Jon, <em>now</em>.</p><p>Jonathan, still on his side, rolls Tommy to face him, hooks a thigh around his own waist, and obliges.</p><p>Tommy was a human stove that time in the cabinet. For all that his hands are often cold, his body usually runs hot. The heat Jonathan finds when he carefully starts to push inside him is incredible. He has to exert all of his self-control to stay in place and not rush things.</p><p>Their respective positions mean Jonathan doesn’t have to put almost his full weight on his arms, nor – consequently – worry about collapsing halfway because his arms gave out. It also allows them to keep their hands on one another and see each other’s face, which is good, because Jonathan loves the look on Tommy’s face right now. It probably reflects his own, wide-eyed delight and incredulity, unease fading into the joy of discovering new sensations. They’re not quite face to face – Jonathan’s eyes are level with Tommy’s nose, his mouth with his chin – but they are close enough to kiss. Tommy, even as he pants and gulps as though he’s in the last leg of a marathon, has his hand on the back of Jonathan’s head and pulls him towards his lips sometimes in a way that reminds Jonathan of reaching for a water canteen after hours under the desert sun. Sweat is beading down his forehead into the pillow under their heads.</p><p>As for Jonathan, he’s not sure whether his whole body is about to self-combust or liquefy. He is in the middle of an explosive mix of sensations and emotions, quite different from what he experienced for the first time a week ago. The thought that he is nestled inside Tommy, <em>moving</em> inside Tommy – inside him and around him all at once – makes everything crash together in his head and in his heart like fireworks displays on Bonfire Night.</p><p>Once Jonathan is all the way in Tommy gives a small whimper that makes Jonathan’s lower belly flop and his heart constrict.</p><p>“Are you…” He gulps, struggles a little to catch his breath, and feels the same shudder go through him and Tommy at the same time. “I mean, is it…?”</p><p>Every hair on Tommy’s arms is raised, goosebumps rise and fall across his skin like the swell on the open ocean, and his smile is a sight to behold. It is broad and radiant and Jonathan can’t help but smile widely in return because –</p><p>“It is,” Tommy murmurs, in a faint puff of air that somehow feels even hotter than the rest of him, outside and inside. “Jesus Christ, Jon, it feels so… I’m… Keep going, I…”</p><p>– because –</p><p>To hell with grammar. Finishing sentences doesn’t matter, not here, not now, not when they understand each other so well with only a breath, a sound, a motion. Jonathan sets a slow, even pace, and Tommy follows him, unless it’s the other way around. That doesn’t matter, either. Who is leading in this dance is not important.</p><p>– <em>because</em> –</p><p>Their rhythm is long, languid, tender – achingly so. Jonathan has one hand hooked under Tommy’s thigh around him and the other around his delightfully soft waist, Tommy has a hand draped across the back of his neck and the other around his ribcage, his arm pinned under the both of them. Their eyes don’t leave each other’s, their smiles mirror each other’s. The world around them has disappeared, taking them with it; they only exist in sensations – mingled breaths, sweat-slicked skin, building heat, hearts hammering almost in time with one another – and emotions, awe and joy and –</p><p>“’Love you,” Jonathan breathes before he can stop himself, and the only reason he doesn’t panic is because his brain has long since left the room and whatever is still in charge has no objection.</p><p>There’s no time for regret, no time to overthink; he is struggling to keep afloat in a high tide that threatens to drown him, and everything comes out in such a rush that he’s not even sure all the right syllables are there. “I love you, I want you, <em>oh God I love</em>—”</p><p>He’s not sure Tommy even registers. From the look of it, the feel of it, Jonathan has found that mysterious spot they discovered the other night, the one that made sweet ecstasy go right through him, and he’s babbling, too, well on his way to bliss.</p><p>“– so good, Jon, I – you’re – <em>aah</em> please just – oh <em>Jon</em> –”</p><p>At some point – Jonathan isn’t sure when, he’s not sure of anything by now except <em>Tommy</em>, <em>love</em>, and <em>YES</em> – they’ve picked up speed. The bed base protests, but since that first time they’ve learned to move the bed away from the wall and the headboard is silent, at least.</p><p>They’re both hurtling down towards completion now, rocking, pushing, pulling, loudly moaning each other’s name. Tommy has his eyes screwed shut, and as pressure rises higher and higher it’s tempting to do the same, but Jonathan stubbornly keeps his open; he wants to see Tommy’s face, his expressions, he wants to find out what he looks like when he finishes with Jonathan inside him.</p><p>When Tommy’s climax finally hits, his body clenches around Jonathan so tightly it drives the remaining breath out of his lungs, and he comes undone in Jonathan’s arms with a shattered cry. The abyss beckons, and Jonathan tightens his embrace, thrusting and pressing into the unbelievable heat he desperately craves, until he hears a broken voice whisper “I love you”, right against his skin. Lightning strikes; he catches fire, and falls, and soars.</p><p>It takes a long time before they can do anything else than lie in each other’s arms, feverish, shivering, breathing ragged. Even after they finally come to their senses, they stay silent and still for a while. They have talked, gasped, they have whispered and shouted; now words are unnecessary.</p><p>The next moments are sheepish looks and tired smiles, Jonathan’s hand on Tommy’s hip in long, lingering caresses, the back of Tommy’s fingers on Jonathan’s forearm, brushing idly, tenderly. Tommy’s eyes are half-open and bright in the dark as he looks at Jonathan in a way that clearly says he regrets nothing.</p><p>Good. Neither does Jonathan.</p>
<hr/><p>The next morning is spent scrambling for clothes and various effects, because Jonathan left the packing to the last minute, as usual, but they find the time for a goodbye kiss before they leave the room. Tommy does not go with him to the station, as per Jonathan’s request, because he frankly dislikes platform farewells; besides, they both know he’s going home with the memory of what they shared last night – sensations, looks, words, everything.</p><p>The impending week apart is probably a blessing in disguise. Right now, Jonathan feels it would only take a single look at them to realise what’s going on. It’s different from the morning after his first time making love with Tommy, that mix of giddy pride and hot, prickling anxiety, like ants crawling under his skin; it’s more rising panic now, icy dread encroaching gradually until he finds it hard to breathe. He <em>needs</em> to figure out a way to make it obvious they’re friends and not lovers. Which is what makes it so difficult, as they are friends and lovers both, and separating the two seems impossible.</p><p>One thing is for sure: they cannot be found out.</p><p>Jonathan gives himself the week to sort everything in his head. The minute the train leaves the station, he leans his head against the window, warm breath fogging the cold glass, and starts thinking – only to fall asleep right away, so deeply that he almost misses his stop. He barely wakes up in time to grab his suitcase and scramble out of the train.</p><p>Father’s telegram said he would send out the Talbot as a Christmas treat, so Jonathan isn’t surprised to see Elliott, their mechanic cum coachman, parked in front of Weybridge railway station. What he doesn’t expect is the sudden attack on his left flank that turns out to be his favourite skinny twelve-year-old in the world. Not that he is that well acquainted with the species as a whole, but Evy definitely wins the prize.</p><p>“Finally!” she says, grinning, her breath puffing in the cold air. Her nose is bright red, but her eyes are shining under her warm hat. How she managed to fit most of her curly hair into that hat is a mystery for the ages. “I can’t believe you could’ve been home for a week already. Mrs Pemberton said you must’ve done some mischief and got detention, she didn’t believe me when I told her you just wanted to stay with your friends for a while. Did you <em>actually</em> get punished and lie to Mum and Dad?”</p><p>“Please, Evy,” Jonathan says with a smirk, old habits coming back as though he’s never left. “If I really <em>had</em> done ‘some mischief’ do you think I would’ve let myself get caught, so close to the holidays?”</p><p>His own words catch up with him a second after he says them. Panic makes a swift return and catches in his throat, cold and sharp.</p><p>Fortunately, Evy doesn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss. She squints at him as though to assess how truthful he’s being, then, without warning, throws herself into his arms.</p><p>“I’ve missed you, Jonathan,” she says thickly, voice half muffled by his topcoat.</p><p>Jonathan nods – a salute and a thanks – at Elliott who has taken care of his suitcase and is looking at the two of them, grinning; then he hugs his sister tightly. They’ve never been apart this long before; Jonathan used to come home almost every weekend when he was in school. He has wished he could countless times in the past term.</p><p>The icy hand of fear around his throat eases gradually until it fades to a faint tugging in his stomach.</p><p>He’s home.</p><p>He’s safe.</p><p>“I’ve missed you too, old mum,” Jonathan whispers, and smiles when he hears Evy’s long-suffering sigh at the nickname.</p>
<hr/><p>To Jonathan’s relief, Christmas is a quiet affair: no guests, no invitations, just the four Carnahans and the best dinner he’s had in ages courtesy of Mrs Parks, the cook. They sing carols, exchange presents, and when it’s half past midnight and Evy inevitably falls asleep on the book about mummified cats in Ancient Egypt Jonathan gave her, Father delicately picks her up and carries her to bed.</p><p>Mother and son watch him go up the stairs with a fond smile. Then Salwa turns to Jonathan and kisses his temple.</p><p>“It’s good to have you home, <em>ḥabībī</em><a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote1sym" id="sdfootnote1anc" name="sdfootnote1anc"><sup>1</sup></a>,” she says quietly, and like at the station with Evy earlier it hits him just how much he’s missed her these past few weeks.</p><p>Jonathan ought to be too old for endearments – has been for years, really. But he’s always made an exception when it’s just the two of them.</p><p>“It’s good to be home, Mum,” he says with a smile.</p><p>And he means it.</p><p>The week flies by, bringing not snow but rain, which means that Jonathan and Evy don’t get to continue their traditional snowball war or go skating on the nearby pond. They make up for it by sneaking into the attic – “This is just training for when we have to go into actual pyramids,” Jonathan points out when Evy frowns at him picking the lock – and spending hours going through old steamer trunks. It makes them feel more like pirates than explorers, even if most of what they find are dusty clothes and lots of papers and journals, yellowed with age, which Evy thinks are fascinating.</p><p>“What’s Oxford like?” she asks him one afternoon after she’s told him about her own term. She’s spoken a lot about the things she’s done and learned, but not much about the people she learned them with. Evy’s always been something of a loner, a state of affairs enforced by her enthusiasm for history and lore. It’s never easy for her to find kindred spirits among her peers.</p><p>Jonathan, lounging in an armchair that must be twice older than he is from the dust that covers it, looks up from the journal he’s been skimming – their father’s account of a trip to Ethiopia in search of traces of the ancient Kingdom of Aksum – and his heart speeds up ever so slightly.</p><p>“Pleasant,” he answers, careful to keep his voice even. “The week before the holidays was absolute hell, though. Exams and whatnot. Can’t even imagine what it’ll be like when the year closes. The end of Trinity term<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote2sym" id="sdfootnote2anc" name="sdfootnote2anc"><sup>2</sup></a> is probably going to be the death of me.”</p><p>Evy’s heard him complain about schoolwork since he started grammar school. She stopped taking his whining seriously when she started getting homework of her own. She flashes him a look where amusement competes with the urge to roll her eyes.</p><p>“I’ll make sure you get a proper burial,” she says, her eyes dancing.</p><p>They did that once, when they were younger: Jonathan played the part of the deceased Pharaoh, Evy the part of the High Priest. She wrapped him in a sheet, piled up toys and books around his bed for him to use ‘in the afterlife’, and pretended to read spells from the mythical Book of the Dead until Jonathan fell asleep. When he woke up from his nap, Evy had quite naturally forgotten him in favour of a book, and he gave her such a scare when he rose from his ‘tomb’ with an unearthly moan that the whole household had come running to see why she had screamed so loudly.</p><p>The memory makes him smile. Which is why the next question catches him off guard somewhat.</p><p>“So what did you and your friends <em>do</em> last week that was so nice you didn’t want to come home till Christmas?” Evy asks, tone a little sharp – like she’s still a little cross that Jonathan didn’t come home immediately after the end of term. Then, just as Jonathan does his best not to look like he’s getting hot under the collar, which he is, she adds absently, “I heard Mum tell Dad she thinks you might have a sweetheart and that’s really why you stayed. But that’s just silly.”</p><p>“Oh?” Only her last remark and the note of finality in her delivery saves Jonathan from giving in to panic. As it is, he has to work hard to keep his breathing steady. “Why’s that?”</p><p>“Because… Because you’re in Oxford!” she exclaims as if it explains everything. It probably does, for her. “There’s so much to read, to learn, to <em>do</em> – why would one want to waste one’s time flirting and <em>kissing</em> when –”</p><p>“Well, the kissing’s nice,” Jonathan hears himself say irrepressibly.</p><p>One day he’ll learn to keep his mouth shut, he tells himself even as his head and his chest seem to catch fire at the thought of all the kissing – among other things – he’s been doing lately, and with whom. One day. Even if the cost is not making cheeky remarks.</p><p>Evy makes a face as only a twelve-year-old can who’s baffled and vaguely disgusted by the concept of exchanging saliva with another person. Her expression makes Jonathan laugh in spite of himself.</p><p>“I suppose the place <em>is</em> rather impressive,” he concedes, grateful for the unintentional out, because he’d rather talk about anything else other than sweethearts and kissing. “By the way, I haven’t told you about the Bodleian, have I?”</p><p>Evy’s eyes glitter. Oh, he has her attention now.</p><p>Jonathan only set foot in the Bodleian Library two or three times so far, for research purposes. It is rather majestic, even for Oxford, which is chock-full of majestic old stones. Most of what he tells Evy – the intricate sculptures, the heavily-decorated ceilings above dark bookshelves, the rows and rows of venerable books so old and valuable they can’t be checked out – stems more from general impressions than photographic accuracy, but he’s always been able to spin a tale for his baby sister, and he knows the right words to draw her in.</p><p>Maybe one day Evy will dream about boys – or, as much as Jonathan hopes she won’t have to deal with the complication, about girls. For the moment, she only dreams about books, and she listens to her big brother describing a library like he might describe El Dorado with the expression crystal-clear in her bright eyes: <em>someday</em>.</p><p>Jonathan is in his element; he embroiders and embellishes, and when Evy occasionally interrupts him to express reservations he steers his words a little closer to reality again.</p><p>At some point he realises that he feels truly at peace for the first time in a fortnight. It’s not so unexpected: Evy is a whirlwind, but if she lets you get close enough to stand in the eye of the storm with her, you can find quiet and comfort there.</p><p>And in that quiet he finally starts to see a possible solution to his own current dilemma.</p>
<hr/><p>Time is a bastard that stretches or shrinks precisely when one does not want it to, and all too soon Jonathan is sitting on a train again. The first days of the year have dawned bright and crisp, announcing nothing but clement weather, reflecting the lift in Jonathan’s spirits. So far 1914 appears full of promise.</p><p>The first thing he does when the cab drops him in front of the college is put his suitcase in his room, unopened; the second thing is head right to the Turf Tavern, where he knows Tommy is working his shift right now.</p><p>Sure enough, there he is, chatting amiably as he cleans glasses. His face lights up when he sees Jonathan and he waves him closer, just as he always does. The only difference is the warm rush of affection in Jonathan’s chest as he climbs on a stool, and the jolt he feels when Tommy hands him a pint and their fingers touch, hot against the cold glass – a glancing touch, no longer than is safe. Gazes meet and separate quickly. Even in the bustle of the pub, even as everyone here is either celebrating the new year or recovering from excesses from earlier celebrations, someone might decipher the age-old code and bring everything to light.</p><p>In this case, ‘everything’ can be summed up to <em>Jonathan loves Tommy, and Tommy loves Jonathan</em>.</p><p>Surprisingly, while the anxiety is still there, purring in his stomach like a contented cat and ready to leap at him with claws out the second he lets his guard down, the thought no longer makes Jonathan feel like his skin has been turned inside out.</p><p>“You look chipper this evening,” says Tommy hours later when he closes the pub. “Had a good holiday, ‘ave you?”</p><p>The last beer Jonathan’s had – perhaps the one too many – is pleasantly buzzing in his brain, just enough to make his legs a little unsteady. So are Tommy’s, but that’s because it’s late and he’s tired, although the couple of pints he’s had before they left don’t help matters much.</p><p>Jonathan leans on his shoulder, grins, and says, “Yes. Yes, I did. And also an idea.”</p><p>Tommy takes his arm with a smile.</p><p>“I think you’re a little drunk for that, Jon,” he says, and Jonathan stares at him dumbly until he remembers the last time he said he had an idea and what ensued. He feels his cheeks go warm and waves the thought away.</p><p>“Not that kind of idea, old chap. I <em>am</em> capable of coming up with more than one good idea, don’t you know.”</p><p>“I know,” says Tommy with a quiet laugh. As usual, he’s leaning on Jonathan just as much as Jonathan is leaning on him as they walk. “So what’s your idea?”</p><p>Jonathan squints at him, gathers his somewhat scattered thoughts.</p><p>“Molly Goddard,” he blurts out. Tommy raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“What about ‘er?”</p><p>“She liked you.”</p><p>“She did, yeah. And?”</p><p>Jonathan hesitates. It’s Tommy’s turn to stare at him.</p><p>“You’re not getting jealous <em>now</em>, are you? Besides,” he adds, dropping his voice to a whisper, “I think we’ve established that I’m just rubbish at kissin’ people who en’t you.”</p><p>This brings back Jonathan’s silliest smile. He lets his head roll on Tommy’s shoulder and stops just short of kissing his jaw, just above the scarf wrapped around his neck.</p><p>“And doesn’t that make me the luckiest bugger in England,” he whispers, and both he and Tommy snigger like two silly thirteen-year-olds – or two drunk almost nineteen-year-olds, as it happens.</p><p>They’re still giggling when they stop in front of Jonathan’s door and totter in, Tommy almost tripping up against the suitcase in the middle of the room. Jonathan’s idea and what it has to do with Molly Goddard has long flown from his fogged-up brain; it takes Tommy mumbling “What’d you mean earlier, about Molly?” for the idea to come back.</p><p>“Oh, er – yes. Well.” Jonathan gives up trying to unbutton his shirt and pulls it over his head. Every article of clothing follows and he clambers into bed wearing just his drawers, too tipsy and tired to open his suitcase in search of clean nightclothes. The bedsheets are freshly laundered, Tommy’s body is warm next to him – all is right with the world.</p><p>“I like kissing people that are you,” he says, words slurring a little into one another. Then, as Tommy smiles fondly, he plays the sentence again in his mind and tries for something more coherent. “I mean, I… I like kissing you. I like making love to you. I like… I like <em>this</em>.” He makes a vague gesture towards the small, warm space between the two of them, under the blanket.</p><p>Tommy blinks slowly. His fingers curl and brush lightly against Jonathan’s cheek, along his jawline.</p><p>“Me too,” he murmurs. “I like this a lot.”</p><p>Jonathan allows himself two seconds of glee at Tommy and him being on the same page and tries to get back on track despite the low hum of alcohol gradually lulling him into sleep.</p><p>“We’re not supposed to, though,” he says thickly. Tommy says nothing, but his gaze shifts into something a little sad, so he adds quickly, “But I… er. Bollocks to that. It just means… taking precautions.”</p><p>“What kind of precautions?” asks Tommy, half drowsing.</p><p>“Well, we still have to look like we’re interested in girls, don’t we?”</p><p>Tommy’s eyes open a little wider.</p><p>“You want to go out and… flirt?”</p><p>“Not so much want as—Well, <em>yes</em>, but –”</p><p>“That’s your idea, is it? Make eyes at girls during the day, and fool around with me at night?”</p><p>“Um. Yes?”</p><p>Cold dread is fighting the warm booze-induced haze in Jonathan’s head – and, indeed, his entire body. He genuinely has no idea what he’ll do if Tommy gets angry or jealous.</p><p>Just as fear starts gaining the upper hand, Tommy squirms closer to Jonathan and bumps his forehead against his chest, trembling a little. Jonathan falters and opens and closes his mouth a few times before he realises Tommy is actually laughing.</p><p>At him.</p><p>“Jon,” he says finally, his voice a little strangled, “I’ve <em>seen</em> you flirt. You’re almost as bad as I am.”</p><p>Jonathan huffs. “Perhaps,” he says pointedly, “but did I give any sign at all of wanting to kiss you for weeks before I did?”</p><p>Tommy stops laughing and looks up to gaze at him.</p><p>“No,” he finally says softly. “No, I had no idea you were even… well, like me.”</p><p>Jonathan can relate to his hesitation. Men who like men are called inverts, and men who like women are called normal, but men who like both don’t seem to fall into either category.</p><p>“There you go. I told you it was a good idea.”</p><p>Tommy lets out a chuckle, but doesn’t contradict him.</p><p>“All right, let’s try your idea, then.” His voice is low, indistinct, almost inaudible. “And Jon?”</p><p>“Mhm?”</p><p>“Happy new year, mate.”</p><p>Jonathan manages to draw him closer and mumble “Happy new year” before he finally falls asleep, still smiling.</p>
<hr/>
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  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote1anc" id="sdfootnote1sym" name="sdfootnote1sym">1</a>(<span>حبيبي), “sweetie”, “darling”</span></p>
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  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote2anc" id="sdfootnote2sym" name="sdfootnote2sym">2</a>The last term of the school year in Oxford. Michaelmas (ends with Christmas) → Hilary (ends with Easter) → Trinity.</p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(they make me so <i>soft</i>)</p><p>If you want Tommy’s point of view and how he came to the “huh, I’m in love!?” realisation, I wrote a one-shot you can read here: <i><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25423132">Same Song, Same Rhythm, Different Melody</a></i> :o) Beware: tooth-rotting fluff ahead ^^</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>On the subject of girls and where to find them – A way in isn’t always a way out – Herbert the ram and his lodgers – Four days and four nights</i><br/>(NSFW)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So our lads are in love and in need of a flirt to hide it. What could go wrong? Well, if you want to see what these two disasters get up to, here’s a short one-shot: <i><a>Lost in Translation</a></i>. These dorks…</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jonathan’s idea for Not Looking Like He’s In Love With Tommy Ferguson, No Sir Not At All is not without its downsides, but it does get some result. They don’t really have a lot of time for it – especially Tommy, who works a lot, and even more so as classes start again – but it’s worth it.</p><p>It <em>is</em> a challenge, though. Until now it hasn’t occurred to Jonathan just how much time he spends without a single female individual in sight. At home, women outnumber the men five to four; here, both the college and the pub are exclusively the province of men, or close enough. A few girls attend the occasional lecture in colleges, including Exeter, but they are so closely guarded by chaperones that even striking casual conversation is next to impossible. The few women’s colleges – St Hilda’s, Somerville, St Hugh’s, Lady Margaret Hall – are naturally off-limits. That just leaves town: parks, cafés, theatres, ballrooms, all sorts of public places, where girls are rarely allowed without a chaperone. If Jonathan was seriously looking to meet a girl his choices would be somewhat limited. He would have to start paying attention to the Season and spend time at events like Wimbledon or the Henley Royal Regatta, which he finds deadly boring; but that would mean putting himself out there as potential husband material, and he wants to avoid that at all costs.</p><p>It doesn’t help that not only he and Tommy are nowhere near successful at flirting with the few girls they do meet, but also both their reputations are taking serious hits, because going to London to womanise is bad enough, but womanising in Oxford is in exceptionally Bad Taste. Jonathan knows he’s generally seen as a nuisance and possibly dangerous for the contents of honest people’s pockets – which is fair enough, he reckons – but Tommy, despite the fact that he has to work for a living (in a pub, no less), wasn’t seen as a particularly unsavoury fellow so far. Oxford – or the ‘gown’ part of it – is divided into two categories: Good Eggs and Bad Eggs. Jonathan already had one foot in the second category, but now he’s knee-deep, and what’s more, he pulled Tommy in with him. Sometimes – not often – he feels a little bad about that.</p><p>(Of course, there <em>are</em> places one can go to meet with women, for a price. But neither Jonathan nor Tommy like that option. Their goal is to appear single and interested in the fairer sex, not to catch venereal diseases.)</p><p>After a month or so of failures, Jonathan comes to the conclusion that Oxford – if not society at large – is absurd. How are men and women even supposed to socialise if they can’t come into contact at all? Some of the fellows have daughters, but they keep a sharp eye on them and any male they mix with. There will be balls during and after Trinity term, for the Summer Eights and Commemoration Week, but that’s <em>months</em> from now.</p><p>So when T. J. Plaskitt brags about his girlfriend at breakfast and waves a letter which he claims is “practically erotica”, Jonathan side-eyes him and asks, “Where did you find that girl, anyway? If she’s even real, that is.”</p><p>“Oh, she is real,” says T. J. with a grin. “And since you ask, I ‘found her’ at the Parks, watching a cricket match. She goes to St Hilda’s.”</p><p>Groans travel up and down the table.</p><p>“You are seeing <em>a female student</em>?” says Cherry-Reaney, voicing the general disapproval.</p><p>“I thought you said she was pretty!” chimes in ‘Darling’ Darlington with a sullen look. “Everyone knows female students are either loonies or too ugly to—”</p><p>“<em>Excuse</em> me.” Arthur McAllister has been pouring over Chaucer, as he usually does at breakfast, but now he looks up a little and gives Darling an icy glare over his glasses. “My cousin Elizabeth goes to Somerville, and she’s neither a loony nor ugly.”</p><p>Cherry pats him on the arm. He’s probably not trying to be condescending, and yet.</p><p>“There, there, old bean, I’m sure she’s the exception to the rule.”</p><p>As Arthur shifts his glare from Darling to Cherry and Cherry hastily changes the subject – for all that the fellow is gangly and awkward and usually genial, it’s uncanny how much his pale eyes resemble the mouth of a cannon right now – Jonathan catches Tommy’s eye and grins.</p><p>Tommy swallows his mouthful of toast and looks back thoughtfully, just a little warily.</p><p>“Let me guess,” he says when they finish breakfast and he and Jonathan retreat to a nook in the corridor outside. They just have time for a two-minute conversation before classes start. “You have an idea.”</p><p>Jonathan nods enthusiastically. “Listen. We’ve been searching for girls in all the wrong places. There are literally dozens of them in those women’s colleges – why didn’t we start there?”</p><p>Tommy raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“’Cause we en’t related to anyone who goes there and they don’t let in anyone who’s not a girl or a blood relation without a chaperone?”</p><p>“Well, yes, but –”</p><p>“And we can’t exactly knock on the door and say ‘Ey up, we’re lookin’ for girls we can pretend to seduce. D’you know anyone who might be interested?’”</p><p>“Of course, when you put it that way,” grumbles Jonathan. “My point is, if we find a way inside we might have a shot at catching someone’s attention.”</p><p>“Sure,” says Tommy. “The proctors’<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote1sym" id="sdfootnote1anc" name="sdfootnote1anc"><sup>1</sup></a>, for one.”</p><p>“Oh, come on! Surely we’re better than that, aren’t we?”</p><p>“At being sneaky? We are, sort of.” Jonathan feels Tommy’s hand brush against his, sending an improbable combination of warmth surging through his chest and chills shooting up his spine. Tommy goes just a little pink and continues, “But it seems to me we’d be takin’ a very big risk for uncertain results. I think we’re being sneaky enough. Besides, I’m fairly certain everyone knows what Dawes and Kempthorne get up to and they en’t been arrested yet.”</p><p>Jonathan sniggers darkly. “Right. And I’m sure nobody will ever make blackmail material out of this.”</p><p>“You worry too much, Jon.”</p><p>“And you don’t worry enough!”</p><p>They are nose to nose, almost chest to chest, and suddenly Jonathan is seized by a wild urge to kiss Tommy right there and then, like in that boathouse cabinet back in December. The memory makes his heart thump; he feels light-headed and fairly certain to know where the blood currently leaving his skull is rushing down to. He’s not the only one flustered: Tommy’s face is very pink and his breathing has quickened.</p><p>A heavy door creaks somewhere down the hall, so far it’s almost an echo, and reality slams back into Jonathan’s head and douses him in cold water, metaphorically speaking.</p><p>“This,” he says, voice trembling ever so slightly, “is exactly what I’m worried about.”</p><p>“All right, you’ve made your point,” Tommy mutters. “Let’s be sneakier, then.”</p><p>He straightens his tie and adds in a would-be casual tone, “What if I told you I might know a way into St Hilda’s that doesn’t include climbing over the wall?”</p><p>Jonathan squints at him. “…Keep going.”</p><p>“I delivered a couple of bottles there from the Turf a few weeks ago. There’s a window at ground level that doesn’t look like it closes well. I think it’s a cellar or something. We could slip inside and from there into the college proper.”</p><p>Jonathan grins again.</p><p>“I say, that’s just fantastic. I had an idea, now we have a plan.”</p><p>As he and Tommy leave the nook and hurry to their class, Tommy asks, “Are you sure it’s a good idea, though, Jon?”</p><p>“Trust me,” says Jonathan, “this is an <em>excellent</em> idea.”</p>
<hr/><p>“This was <em>not</em> a good idea.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“I think it might be the worst idea you’ve ever had.”</p><p>“Probably.”</p><p>To Tommy’s credit, he hasn’t really put the boot in. If a situation ever called for an extended sharp-tongued ‘I told you so’, this one does. But Tommy is never eager to kick a man while he’s down. Which is fortunate, because both of them are ‘down’, and, Jonathan suspects, unwilling to do anything as strenuous as lifting a foot to kick.</p><p>They did sneak into the cellar through the window. That part worked perfectly. The locking mechanism appeared so worn that it was a matter of seconds to work it open. The first real problem presented itself when they couldn’t unlock the door.</p><p>Jonathan studies the lock carefully in the dim light – it’s the middle of the afternoon, but the window isn’t enough to light the whole cellar – and frowns.</p><p>“Dammit,” he mutters. “There must be a padlock on the other side.”</p><p>“Jon.”</p><p>“Hang on, I’m trying something –”</p><p>“<em>Jon</em>.”</p><p>“I know, I know, but on the off-chance there <em>isn’t</em> a padlock and the lock is just jammed—”</p><p>“Bloody hell, Jon, just shut up and look.”</p><p>Jonathan leaves his study of the lock with a long-suffering sigh and turns round. He catches sight of Tommy, staring straight ahead with wide eyes, and follows his gaze.</p><p>They aren’t alone in the cellar.</p><p>There is a ram in there. A live one. Three hundred pounds, give or take. What it is doing in that cellar, Jonathan has no idea, but it doesn’t look too happy to suddenly have to share it with two trespassers.</p><p>Jonathan stares at the mass of wool, the horns, and the small beady eyes fixed on them, and whispers, “Another time, perhaps?”</p><p>Tommy makes a small “uh-huh” sound through his nose, and they hug the walls back to the window. Unfortunately, this is when they hear voices outside and a crash and the only source of light is cut off, leaving only the sliver of a ray.</p><p>There’s barely enough light to see by. But that’s not the main problem.</p><p>“Did someone just… put a big crate in front of our window?” asks Tommy, sounding too shocked for despair yet.</p><p>This time it’s Jonathan’s turn to make a high-pitched wordless version of “It does appear so.”</p><p>“<em>Just</em> in front of our window?”</p><p>They couldn’t get out even if they broke the glass. There is simply not enough room between the crate and the window, and from the sound it made when it was set down, that crate is ridiculously heavy.</p><p>Jonathan looks back to the ram and wonders if he’s imagining the malevolent glee in the animal’s eyes.</p><p>He’s not.</p><p>The beast baas, snorts, and – quite without warning – charges them.</p><p>“Oh, f—”</p><p>“The horns! Grab the horns!”</p><p>“What d’you think I’m – <em>ouch</em>, me b—”</p><p>“Owowowow bloody <em>hell</em>—!”</p><p>The horns are blunt and their tips are sharp, making for devilishly effective attacks. When one of them is down, the ram merrily tramples him to get to the other, and when it finally has enough and leaves them alone, Jonathan and Tommy are groaning on the floor, covered in cuts and bruises.</p><p>It feels worse than the aftermath of the fight at the Turf Tavern. This time Jonathan has cloven hoof prints all over his suit – and the skin underneath, no doubt – and no stolen wallet to make up for it.</p><p>Seconds pass, then minutes, and finally Tommy voices his opinion of Jonathan’s idea, which Jonathan can only agree with. But then again, how was he to know about the bloody ram? Who even keeps an animal like that in a cellar? How the hell did it get down there in the first place?</p><p>“I don’t know,” says Tommy, eyeing the hellish beast where it’s lying on a straw-covered spot in a corner, staring at them in a way that manages to look smug and ominous at the same time. “But you’ll never get me to set foot in a girl’s college again. Ever.”</p><p>“Fair enough.”</p><p>They gingerly gather their limbs and slowly, <em>very</em> slowly retreat to the opposite corner of the cellar, keeping an eye on the ram all the while. The ram returns the favour, but doesn’t move, thank goodness.</p><p>Outside, afternoon is fading into twilight, taking what little warmth the sun could have brought with it. The building has thick stone brick walls and the cellar is under ground level, but it is February, and cold enough to make Jonathan shiver once the excitement of the past few minutes has passed. His hands find Tommy almost of their own accord and he presses his body against his, startling him.</p><p>“Do you really think this is the right time, Jon?”</p><p>“I’m cold,” mutters Jonathan, trying to curl into a ball <em>and</em> be as close as he can to Tommy at the same time. “I hate the cold.”</p><p>“Oh.” A pause. “En’t you worried someone might –”</p><p>“There’s no-one around, otherwise we would be out of here by now. And it’s not like Herbert here is going to tell, are you, Herbert?”</p><p>Tommy looks at him like he’s gone mad.</p><p>“<em>Herbert?</em>”</p><p>Jonathan jerks his thumb towards their horned nemesis and shrugs as much as he can without changing position. “He looks like a Herbert.”</p><p>“Baa,” says Herbert, and for a dumb animal it sounds awfully like he’s laughing at them.</p><p>Tommy puts his arms around Jonathan and rests his head against his. The temperature racks up a degree or two.</p><p>“I thought you wanted to, um,” he says, and doesn’t specify what. He doesn’t have to. Jonathan can feel his cheek grow warm.</p><p>“Maybe later,” says Jonathan. He doesn’t even have the energy to blush. “When we’re not stuck in a cellar with the hellspawn who beat us to a pulp. Good God, how embarrassing is that? If this gets out and we don’t get expelled, the whole of Oxford will be laughing at us.”</p><p>Tommy lets out a small laugh. Jonathan feels it rumble through his chest and into his.</p><p>“Look at the positive side of things, Jon: the plan will have worked. If this does get out and we don’t get expelled, at least we’ll be the two hapless idiots who got locked in the basement of St Hilda’s because—”</p><p>“You’re not helping.”</p><p>“Shut up and let me finish. We’ll be known as the two idiots who sneaked in to see girls. Not the two idiots who, er, like to enjoy a bit of buggery on occasion. That was the plan, yeah?”</p><p>All right, so perhaps Jonathan does have some energy to spare for blushing.</p><p>Since the end of the holidays, they’ve fooled around, they’ve made love, they made each other sigh and laugh and whisper and gasp, but the jar of petroleum jelly has stayed in the drawer. They just don’t trust themselves to stay silent, not when they’re caught in that particular swell, when the pleasure building inside them is too intense not to find a way out somehow. They can’t afford to be loud now that the rooms around theirs are no longer empty.</p><p>Dear God, Jonathan wishes they were.</p><p>“It was,” he says, trying to sound self-satisfied despite the fact that his entire body feels like one big bruise. At least Tommy against him brings a modicum of warmth. “Does that mean we can call it a success if we <em>don’t</em> get expelled?”</p><p>This time Tommy laughs for real.</p><p>“Nah, mate. It’s a complete disaster.” Then, as Jonathan huffs, “Don’t worry, though, that crate won’t stay up there forever. As soon as it’s gone, we’re gettin’ out. All we have to do is wait.”</p><p>And wait they do.</p>
<hr/><p>In the morning, when they wake up cold and stiff and aching everywhere, the crate is still there. So is Herbert, keeping a baleful eye on them from his mattress of straw. It looks comfortable, despite the smell. At least one of them slept well.</p><p>They’ve missed two meals – dinner and breakfast – and as lunchtime comes and goes, both stomachs are starting to rumble.</p><p>To stave off hunger they make a few trips to a water tap halfway down the wall between them and the cloven-hoofed fiend across the room. The water is icy and tastes vaguely of iron, but at least it means they won’t die from thirst.</p><p>“We’re not dyin’ from hunger either, Jon,” says Tommy when Jonathan points this out. “Someone <em>will</em> move that crate at some point. We just need to be ready for it.”</p><p>“Baa.”</p><p>Jonathan glares at Herbert, who looks entirely too smug.</p><p>“I hope you get sacrificed by devil-worshippers,” he calls out.</p><p>Herbert stares back, unperturbed.</p>
<hr/><p>Minutes turn to hours then back into mere minutes when Jonathan looks at his watch. To pass time, he fiddles with the lock pick he usually keeps in the inside pocket of his jacket, just in case.</p><p>“How did you ever learn to pick locks?” Tommy asks curiously. “And <em>why</em>? I mean, it en’t the kind of thing they teach in posh boardin’ schools, is it?”</p><p>“I got curious.” And, because this is Tommy, and he probably won’t laugh, Jonathan adds with just a touch of uneasiness, “And I suppose that time Cedric Leighton locked me up in a wardrobe for a laugh was something of a motivation, as well.”</p><p>To his relief, Tommy does not laugh.</p><p>“How old were you?”</p><p>“About seven, I think. I was in there all afternoon. Quite missed Cedric’s birthday party. Which I assume was the whole point.”</p><p><em>I don’t want half-blood mongrels at </em>my<em> birthday party</em>, Cedric had said before closing the door and turning the key in the lock. The memory still leaves a bitter taste in Jonathan’s mouth.</p><p>Tommy shoots him a wry glance.</p><p>“Nobs have the weirdest pastimes.”</p><p>“I’ll say. You should see us play croquet.”</p><p>“I think I’ll stick to football, thanks.”</p><p>They catch each other’s eye and smile. The uneasiness vanishes, just like that.</p><p>“What about picking pockets? Is there a reason you learned to do that, as well?”</p><p>Jonathan grins.</p><p>“Absolutely none. I just thought it’d be a fun hobby.”</p><p>There’s nothing else to do, so the conversation continues in the same vein. Tommy tells Jonathan about growing up near the docks, playing stupid, dangerous but oh so fun games with his mates, like jumping from docked ship to docked ship or ‘borrowing’ a rowing boat to cross the Mersey. Jonathan tells Tommy about the long train and boat trips to Egypt, their little house in Cairo, how the desert is hot during the day and cold at night. As the sun sets – again – behind the window and the crate, he talks about Evy, how she’s the smartest person he knows despite her age, an improbable cross between bookworm and brigadier general.</p><p>During the night, as they huddle together, shivering from the cold, Tommy tells him about his mother, who hangs on to her Kerry accent like she hangs on to the crucifix around her neck, like it’s something warm and solid that helps get her through everything. She calls him Tomáisín, Tomás when she’s cross. He talks about his father, who spoke Scottish Gaelic with his shipmates but never taught Tommy a single word, because Tommy had to be as English as possible – and now it’s been five years since his ship sailed off and never came back, and Tommy wishes he had a bit of his father’s language to remember him by.</p><p>Jonathan is glad his mum speaks Arabic with him sometimes, enough that he knows he can hold a conversation without embarrassing himself too much. At some point, he tells Tommy about how his mother always walks with her head held high and her chin up no matter what gets thrown her way, that she’s better at stiff upper lip than all of Britain, because she refuses to be ashamed of who she is and where she was born.</p><p>He also tells him exactly why Cedric Leighton locked him in a wardrobe that day, about growing up amongst polished, cultured voices whispering: <em>oh yes, the Carnahan boy, you’d never think it to look at him, he looks English enough, doesn’t he?</em> or <em>I hear he’s the only reason Carnahan married </em>that woman<em> in the first place, don’t you know, and so late the boy is practically a bastard</em>.</p><p>Tommy’s hand finds his in the dark, and he grips back. It’s a small thing, holding hands, though not so small that they could get away with it in public, unfortunately. But somehow the feel of it – fingers laced together, palms pressed against each other’s – is incredibly important. In some ways it’s just as intimate as lying close to one another, skin to skin, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat.</p><p>They talk, they listen, and they talk some more, and thankfully the third occupant of the room doesn’t make a peep. In the small hours of the morning, when they’re all talked out, they quiet down and search for each other’s lips – carefully, to avoid the bruises.</p><p>“<em>Baḥebbak</em>,<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote2sym" id="sdfootnote2anc" name="sdfootnote2anc"><sup>2</sup></a>” Jonathan murmurs just before he falls asleep, because when they’re not inside each other and submerged by emotions and sensations it feels a little less overwhelming to say it like this, without offering a translation.</p><p>Maybe Tommy doesn’t need a translation anyway. The last thing Jonathan feels before he sinks into a murky sleep is a warm kiss in his hair.</p>
<hr/><p>The sun rises, and the crate is still there. They can hear footsteps sometimes, voices, and even the distant clattering of cabs.</p><p>“I say, Tommy?”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“Do you think we should call for help?”</p><p>“Not if we don’t want to get expelled. Or arrested for breaking and entering.”</p><p>“Fair point, fair point.”</p>
<hr/><p>As the day passes, the hunger gets worse. Jonathan can safely say he’s never been hungrier.</p><p>“I have never been hungrier.”</p><p>“Me neither,” moans Tommy. They’re slumped on each other in the corner, facing the window they sneaked in through. It’s not much, but it’s a better view than Herbert placidly munching on straw in the corner across from them. He’s taken a few strolls around the cellar, snorted and baaed a little in their direction, but so far hasn’t seen fit to charge them again.</p><p>Jonathan can practically hear Mrs Pemberton’s voice in his head telling him he should be grateful for small mercies. He privately tells her to go to hell. Jonathan likes his mercies a little bit bigger, thank you very much.</p><p>“Do you like mutton?” he asks Tommy, who looks at him incredulously before leaning his head back against the wall and sighing.</p><p>“Mam makes hotpot sometimes. And me dad used to make a mean lobscouse.”</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>“Stew.”</p><p>“Oh.” Jonathan pauses. “Our cook got the recipe for bamia from my mum. ‘S got lamb in it. And tomato, onion, coriander, and garlic. It’s really, really good.”</p><p>“Jon?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Is there any reason you’re torturing yourself <em>and</em> me by talking about food when we haven’t eaten anythin’ for over three days?”</p><p>Jonathan’s head swivels to Herbert to glare at him directly.</p><p>“I’m trying to come up with ways to make <em>him</em> more… palatable. Literally.”</p><p>“You’re wastin’ your time. He looks like a tough bastard. Bet he tastes horrible, too.”</p><p>The ram wobbles in their direction and stops about a yard from them; Jonathan and Tommy freeze. Then their enemy makes a clean about-turn, presenting them his rear in what looks like a show of contempt, and plops down on the straw again.</p><p>Outside, the sun sets on their third night in the cellar.</p>
<hr/><p>“It’s been an honour, old chap.”</p><p>“We’re <em>not</em> goin’ to die, Jon.”</p><p>“That crate hasn’t moved for four days. We haven’t had anything to eat for four days. We are definitely going to starve to death in the near future. Unless the weather takes a turn for the worse and we freeze instead. Not exactly something I’m looking forward to, but I hear it’s preferable to dying from hunger.”</p><p>Tommy lets out something between a chuckle and a sigh. Jonathan feels the puff of air on the side of his head, warm in the cold of the cellar.</p><p>“How serious are you, really?”</p><p>Jonathan doesn’t know, to tell the truth. What he does know is that it’s easier to make grim jokes about dying than to seriously face the possibility that they actually might never come out of that cellar alive. It’s also easier to be as dramatic as possible knowing that Tommy’s matter-of-fact optimism can buoy them both.</p><p>Tommy’s question goes unanswered. Jonathan shifts a little against him and changes the subject. Slightly.</p><p>“I’m sorry for dragging you into this disaster,” he says quietly. It’s not often that he’s so completely sincere. But whether they really are going to die or not, the situation calls for nothing less.</p><p>“Well,” murmurs Tommy, “in that case I’m sorry, too. The cellar was my suggestion.”</p><p>“Apology accepted.”</p><p>“Likewise.”</p><p>“Any regrets?”</p><p>Tommy looks like he would roll his eyes if he had the energy, which Jonathan suspects he doesn’t. Then he appears thoughtful.</p><p>“Things I didn’t do, should’ve done, should’ve done differently? Can’t say I have. You?”</p><p>“Oh, there are <em>lots</em> of things I shouldn’t have done. None springs to mind, though.”</p><p>They wouldn’t be stuck in there if he hadn’t kissed Tommy that night in the Oxford Arms, for one. But considering what it led to – what they are now to each other, the sheer joy and heart-stopping pleasure it brings them, saying “I love you” for the first time and meaning it with all his soul – Jonathan can’t bring himself to regret it. Not even if they do not make it out.</p><p>Speaking of which…</p><p>Jonathan leaves Tommy’s side, plants himself right in front of him, and kisses him soundly. Tommy makes a small sound of surprise; the next second, Jonathan feels his arms slide around his torso, pulling him closer.</p><p>“Jon, not that I mind, but – woah there, careful with that knee, mate – what are you doin’?”</p><p>“I was thinking,” says Jonathan rather breathlessly, between kisses, “that I don’t want my last act on this earth to be bemoaning my fate.”</p><p>“No?”</p><p>“No. I’d rather be kissing you senseless.”</p><p>Tommy grins against his lips.</p><p>“I still maintain we’re <em>not</em> going to die, but I like this idea a lot more than your last one.”</p><p>“Rub it in, why don’t y—”</p><p>Jonathan doesn’t get to finish before Tommy’s mouth finds his again, shutting him up for good. Despite the circumstances, despite the cold and the hunger so powerful it feels like his muscles have turned into marmalade, desire flares back into life, sending a burst of heat through his body from his lower abdomen all the way up to his throat. Maybe they should have done this a lot more these past few days. The cellar would have felt a lot less cold.</p><p>They are alone, almost, and they are safe – it’s about five in the morning, nobody is around to hear if they moan a little bit. Yes, there is a chance they’re not going to die (not right now anyway) but on the off-chance that they are, Jonathan wants to die happy.</p><p>He moves his knee by half an inch and Tommy groans, half-hard already through his trousers. His mouth leaves Jonathan’s and stops on his neck, just before the spot that always makes Jonathan squirm; he unbuttons Jonathan’s coat, then his jacket, and his hand comes to rest between his legs, where his erection is straining against the double layer of cloth.</p><p><em>Remember the boathouse cabinet</em>, says the little voice of reason in Jonathan’s head, from very far away.</p><p><em>I don’t care</em>, Jonathan shoots back. He keeps kissing Tommy and pushing against his hand, because it feels good, so good, and he’s cold and weak from hunger and just a little afraid, and Tommy – his eyes, barely visible in the dark, his hands, his body, his tongue – is all that matters right now.</p><p>Tommy grinds on Jonathan’s knee and up his thigh until he’s practically straddling his lap. His hand keeps stroking and caressing, making Jonathan whimper against his mouth, half out of his mind already. His hands go down to the small of Tommy’s back and he hauls him closer still. Tommy shivers; his hand stops stroking and starts rubbing and <em>ooh</em>, between this and the friction from his pants and trousers Jonathan has a feeling he’s not going to last very long.</p><p>His mind is a whirl of thoughts colliding into each other – <em>you shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t</em> and <em>but it feels so bally good and I want him so much</em> and <em>at least take off your trousers, you damn fool</em>. Which is the voice of reason, he has no idea, and is far too far gone to care. Somehow he’s managed to loosen Tommy’s collar and tie, which gives him leeway to move his lips and his tongue to his jawline and down his neck. The feel of four-day stubble and the taste of hot skin, even under the grime of almost four days without a wash, makes his head spin.</p><p>Tommy lets out a sigh close to his ear – “Oh, <em>Jon</em>” – and the mix of tenderness and lust in it almost sends Jonathan over the edge. Tommy must be close himself, if the way he’s panting is any indication. The thought of the both of them finishing at the exact same time makes Jonathan’s breath catch in his throat.</p><p>“Tommy,” he gasps, his heart seizing in his chest, “Tommy, I – <em>oh God</em> –”</p><p>He is so, so close. If he could just… <em>reach</em>… just a little bit…</p><p>But then –</p><p>“Jon, stop.”</p><p>Tommy’s voice goes in through his ear and straight to the pit of his stomach like ice. Jonathan is a breath away from bursting into flame, his whole lower body is throbbing painfully, but he stills at the sound of that voice. Something is wrong.</p><p>“What’s…” He gulps, tries to catch his breath. “What’s the m—matter? Are you all right?”</p><p>“Shh… Listen.”</p><p>Jonathan takes a look at Tommy, practically nose to nose with him – panting, trembling, face strained and shiny with sweat, an exact mirror of how Jonathan is feeling right now – and tries to hear something beyond the rush of blood against his eardrums.</p><p>After a while, he does hear something: the soft murmur of feminine voices, coming not from the street above, but from beyond the heavy cellar door and getting closer.</p><p>“…lucky Kitty had that spare. Imagine how hungry Fluffykins must be!”</p><p>“How was I to know they would leave that crate for so long?”</p><p>“I can’t believe you lost the key, Celia.”</p><p>“Well, it wasn’t <em>my</em> idea to keep a sheep in the first place. That was Daisy’s.”</p><p>“You agreed!”</p><p>“Of course I agreed! I wasn’t going to let the poor thing be slaughtered just like that! But you said feeding him through the window would be enough!”</p><p>“Girls, girls, be quiet. You’re going to scare the poor darling. He must be in a state already.”</p><p>“Of course. Let me just… open that padlock…”</p><p>Herbert, who was sleeping and ignoring the blatant flouting of decency laws on his domain with supreme indifference, perks up.</p><p>It’s not a very long conversation, but it is long enough to make Jonathan and Tommy look at each other in horror and scramble apart and up. Putting their clothes in order would take too long, so they just button up their topcoats over jackets, waistcoats and collars in disarray.</p><p>The one thing they’re not too worried about is looking decent below the belt. Not only are their coats more than long enough to hide incriminating evidence, but the terror of getting found out – and getting seen like <em>this</em> – seriously cooled down their ardour. Their erections are now barely at half-mast and shrinking fast.</p><p>There is only one thing to do. Jonathan looks at Tommy, swallows, and pulls up his topcoat over the back of his head until it covers his face completely. Beside him, Tommy does the same, and like a couple of sprinters they get ready to bolt.</p><p>The second the door opens, they shoot off past Herbert, who lets out an outraged baa, and past the girls, who squawk and yelp. They run up the stairs and – unable to see anything but their feet – smack into a wall before they find a door and finally burst out into the street.</p><p>Fear of being caught and wild relief at not being caught <em>yet</em> lend them wings and send new strength to their legs as they run, and run, and run some more. Somehow they race almost the entire mile that separates St Hilda’s from Exeter College before collapsing at the intersection between High Street and Turl Street. They clamber to their feet, stagger down the street to the halls and into Jonathan’s room; they have to devour a month’s worth of biscuits before Tommy finds the strength to go up to his own room for a wash, a shave, and a change of clothes… and then down to breakfast, half an hour later, where they polish off half the food on the table.</p><p>It hardly feels enough.</p>
<hr/><p>Goodness knows how they make it through the entire day.</p><p>Their disappearance didn’t go unnoticed; Tommy missed a day and a half of work at the Turf and Jonathan missed a written test on Egyptian mythology. They pretend to have been ill, which is believable enough considering how pale and shivery they look, and even a little gaunt after four days on nothing but slightly rusty water. Thankfully, few of the contusions inflicted upon them by the irate Herbert show on their faces, which saves them uncomfortable questions from their peers (and teachers).</p><p>They drag themselves to Jonathan’s room immediately after dinner. The hunger roaring in their stomachs is now nothing but a bad memory, but they slept quite poorly for the past four nights – when they slept at all – and have been on their feet since five in the morning. Jonathan is all set to peel off his clothes and throw them on a chair to get into bed faster, but the second he locks the door, Tommy pushes him against the wall and buries his face in his neck, just under his jaw.</p><p>“Oh, I <em>say</em>,” stammers Jonathan, somewhat startled, though his surprise quickly fades into enthusiasm. More often than not, he’s the one who initiates, but when Tommy does things get heated <em>fast</em>. “What – <em>oh yes</em> – what brought this on?”</p><p>“I told you we wouldn’t die,” says Tommy, smile bright and eyes brighter still. “Didn’t I?”</p><p>Lips meet lips, tongue meets tongue, and which belongs to whom doesn’t feel very important. Whether it’s due to the exhaustion or Tommy’s broad shoulders and soft middle pressing him flat into the wall, Jonathan has no idea, but he’s already half gone, floating, like he might melt on the floor if not for the dual support of the wall and Tommy’s weight against him. The faded bruises – along his ribs, on his back, on his backside – wake up just enough to add to the rising cacophony of sensations.</p><p>Jonathan has skimmed through a few bodice rippers for a laugh, enough to know that ‘Male Protagonist pushing Female Protagonist into a wall to ravish her’ is apparently a staple of the genre. Well, his days of making fun of said genre are past. The combination of hard wall behind him and Tommy’s soft body and earnest eyes right in front of him is incredibly erotic, even more so than when he essentially threw himself at Tommy in the boathouse cabinet. Besides, it <em>was</em> fun, and beyond pleasant, but being able to see his face makes it much better.</p><p>Through the fog in his head and limbs he finds the energy to wrap his arms around Tommy and clutch him tightly, as though he’ll feel less tired if he can hold on close and long enough. Tommy moves his hips just a little to the side, the full length of his body still rubbing against Jonathan, hot and hard against his thigh and getting harder still.</p><p>They’re still fully clothed, and Tommy is making no sign of taking off even his jacket.</p><p>Jonathan doesn’t break the kiss, doesn’t even open his eyes as his fingers undo the buttons of Tommy’s waistcoat. After a while, Tommy takes a deep, shaky breath and leans back slightly to take care of Jonathan’s own buttons.</p><p>Jackets, waistcoats, ties and stiff collars hit the floor haphazardly, and Jonathan suggests, “Bed?” because if this goes on just a little longer he will definitely dissolve on the spot.</p><p>But Tommy, face flushed, rich brown eyes darkened by desire, hoarsely murmurs “No.”</p><p>This sends a spike of passion sharp enough to pierce Jonathan’s fatigue and shoot straight to his brain.</p><p><em>It </em>is<em> like the boathouse cabinet</em>, whispers the same voice that is usually crying out <em>ohGodTommyYES</em> in moments like this, <em>but so much better</em>. There’re safe in his room, behind a locked door, but they’re also frantically groping at each other against a wall like they’re not, like they need to hurry. They can hear voices and footsteps on the other side, faintly; they will be heard if they cry out, but anything quieter isn’t dangerous.</p><p>Not for the first time, what they are getting away with makes Jonathan dizzy – unless it’s due to a mix of exhaustion and the scent of Tommy, the taste of Tommy, the feel of him, the sound of his uneven breathing, the look in his eyes, dark with need.</p><p>Their legs are in a tangle, their arms roaming all over each other. Jonathan’s right foot is flat against the wall, his left barely touches the floor at all: his body is propped up and held in place by Tommy’s not inconsiderable weight. He throws his arms around Tommy’s neck – a reflex to keep himself upright – and sees stars when he feels Tommy’s hand cup him and stroke him over his trousers.</p><p>“You’re going to – <em>aah</em> – to have to scrape me off the – <em>oh dear God</em> – off the floor when we’re done,” Jonathan gasps. Tommy shakes his head ever so slightly. His tousled hair tickles Jonathan’s cheek.</p><p>“En’t lettin’ you fall,” he whispers, his lilting accent rougher than usual, as always when he gets passionate – and <em>oh</em>, the sound of his voice is almost enough to bring Jonathan to the edge.</p><p>But his last functioning brain cell holds him back.</p><p>“Trousers,” he croaks.</p><p>Cotton drawers and shirts are easy to wash, and they have spares in his room. Heavy twill is another matter entirely.</p><p>Tommy knows this as well as Jonathan does. He groans, sending little shivers of pleasure down Jonathan’s neck and shoulder, and fumbles with the buttons. After long minutes – actually a few seconds – they shrug off their braces and kick off their trousers, and their bodies find one another again like they haven’t been apart at all.</p><p>Tommy crushes Jonathan against the wall once more, making him gasp as his breath rushes out of his lungs; Jonathan pushes his knee and then his thigh between his legs, and suddenly he understands exactly why Tommy didn’t want to take everything off. They are grinding against each other just like that time in the boathouse cabinet, and like then the cloth of their drawers increases the already maddening friction tenfold. It also adds just a tiny bit of frustration for Jonathan to not be able to properly touch Tommy, <em>grab</em> Tommy, grasp the small hairs and feel his soft, thin skin, enough that he lasts just a little bit longer when he thought he would get to the finish line first.</p><p>He has just enough strength left to grab Tommy’s buttocks and pull him closer; Tommy moans his name into his mouth – “Jon <em>oh Jon</em>” – and his hand gives one last squeeze –</p><p>That’s all it takes. Jonathan feels the heat on his thigh just as his own climax strikes him hard. He shudders, sighs, and would slide down the wall bonelessly if Tommy, true to his word, wasn’t still holding him close.</p><p>They stay still for a while, Jonathan slumped against Tommy with his head on his shoulder, Tommy essentially bracing himself against Jonathan and the wall behind. Racing heartbeats gradually slow down, hitching breaths gradually steady. On the other side of the wall, life goes on, fellow students coming in from dinner or going out to the pubs; in there, time has stopped, or at least slowed down to a crawl, as though moving through treacle.</p><p>Through the warm haze of post-bliss exhaustion mixed with sheer weariness, Jonathan hears Tommy murmur against his neck, between gulping breaths, “We didn’t die.”</p><p>Jonathan feels himself smile into Tommy’s shoulder.</p><p>“No, we didn’t.”</p><p>His arms weigh a ton each, but he manages to tighten them around Tommy, who sighs.</p><p>“Do you think those girls could recognise us if they saw us again?”</p><p>“I’m positively certain they couldn’t,” whispers Jonathan. “It was dark and they didn’t see anything – not our clothes, not our faces, not even our hair. We could’ve been the caretakers for all they know.”</p><p>Tommy snorts. “You’d make one lousy caretaker, mate.”</p><p>He’s not wrong. Jonathan can’t seem to keep his own room tidy, much less others’. One would have but to take a look at the books, notebooks, and stationary scattered across his bookshelves, sharing the space with dirty teacups, uneven piles of clean handkerchiefs, and the odd memento from home. The only exception he generally makes is clothes, because he doesn’t like wrinkles, but right now his and Tommy’s are strewn all over the floor where they tossed them earlier. He should do something about that. But it would mean moving, and for the moment that is out of the question. Jonathan is fairly sure that if he moves at all, he will fall to pieces.</p><p>The wall is cold and hard at his back, but Tommy is warm in his arms. Both their drawers are soiled, and Jonathan’s mind whisks him back to that evening in the boathouse and how quickly that state of affairs became disgusting in the cold and the open. Right now, though, Jonathan is tired and warm, basking in the fuzzy glow release usually brings, and they only need to drop their underwear into the hamper and clean up before they go to bed. Tommy still hasn’t moved his hand around his softening prick, his groin feels sticky and hot against Jonathan’s thigh, and sod it, Jonathan is too comfortable to feel unclean.</p><p>“Jon?”</p><p>Jonathan realises his eyes slid shut at some point and gives a start.</p><p>“W—what?”</p><p>Tommy laughs softly.</p><p>“You really can’t move, can you?”</p><p>“…No, old chap, I’m afraid. I told you you’d have to scrape me off the floor.”</p><p>“I’m hopin’ it won’t come to that. Come ‘ead.”</p><p>It takes some complicated manoeuvring, but soon enough both pairs of drawers are in the hamper, a wet cloth is enough for a perfunctory clean-up, and they can snuggle naked under the covers and let sleep wash over them.</p><p>Jonathan rests his head on Tommy’s broad shoulder, entangles his legs with his, and lets his hand play idly with the fine hair on his chest. Just as he’s about to drop off to sleep, he feels more than hears a murmur rumble under his cheek.</p><p>“Jon, I love you, but the next time you have an idea like ‘let’s sneak into a girl’s college to talk to girls’ I might just say ‘count me out, mate’.”</p><p>Jonathan is too far gone to give a proper reply, so he just makes a small sound of agreement and falls asleep instantly with Tommy’s first four words on his mind.</p>
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  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote1anc" id="sdfootnote1sym" name="sdfootnote1sym">1</a>Oxford University Police.</p>
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  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote2anc" id="sdfootnote2sym" name="sdfootnote2sym">2</a>(بحبك), also transcribed as <em>baHíbbak</em>, “I love you” (speaking to a man), Egyptian Arabic</p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh they are <i>idiots</i>. *shakes head*</p><p>Next up, a SFW chapter for once!</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>An unmemorable encounter – In which future accommodations are debated – Terror, like lightning – Unexpected allies</i>
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    <p>A rumour, Jonathan knows, having started a few in his time – for instance in retaliation against some unflattering and entirely unnecessary comments directed at his person – has a way of getting a life of its own. Creating one and watching it grow as it hops from person to person is entertaining enough, but being the object of said rumour, unbeknownst to everyone who shares it, tends to make one very uncomfortable.</p><p>Neither he nor Tommy knows where the rumour started, although they can guess one of Herbert’s clandestine keepers must have a hand in it.</p><p>At first, it’s simple and accurate enough: trespassers of the male persuasion were seen inside St Hilda’s College and encountered an animal of indefinite species before fleeing.</p><p>This, however, is how it <em>starts</em>. What it grows into is another matter.</p><p>“I say,” Percy Barkley tells Edwin Farbow in the corridor, “they were burglars who got in through the kitchen and were chased off by a flock of geese. Fierce birds, geese.”</p><p>“<em>I</em> say,” Sherard ‘Sherry’ Coote tells George Cherry-Reaney at breakfast, “that they were students from Trinity who regularly sneaked in to fondle the girls, until one girl got jealous and set the dogs on them. Do <em>we</em> have dogs? I wish we did. I like dogs.”</p><p>“I say,” Jonathan asks Arthur McAllister at dinner, “could you pass the salt, please?”</p><p>Some of the closest ways the rumour is skirting the truth these past few days sometimes leave Jonathan feeling half highly amused and half terrified, which translates into a strange state of pseudo calm, like he’s watching reality happen to someone else and making witty comments about it. It seems to worry Tommy a little.</p><p>He knows the girls cannot have seen his and Tommy’s faces before they ran. Unfortunately, he also knows their alibis – namely, having been too poorly to come out of their rooms for the past few days – are flimsy. They do look like they’ve been unwell, but if anyone at all looks at their story too closely, everything might collapse like a house of cards and they will be identified as the culprits.</p><p>Arthur hands him the salt shaker, looking relieved that the query was not another question about girls’ colleges. Since he has admitted to being related to a female student, this practically makes his cousin a potential informer in the eyes of their classmates, no matter how often he repeats that she does <em>not</em> go to St Hilda’s and consequently does <em>not</em> have any insider’s information about the affair.</p><p>T. J. Plaskitt, who is still courting a St Hilda’s alumna, happily talks about it to anyone willing to listen. Except it becomes obvious, as he goes on and on without actually saying much, that he has no idea what happened, either.</p><p>“What does your cousin think about this?” Monty Carpenter asks Arthur. “Whatever really happened, the idea of a girls’ college being broken into… Well, nobody would blame her for being scared. I mean to say, anything could have happened, could it?”</p><p>Jonathan avoids Tommy’s eye and sinks a little in his seat. This really <em>was</em> the worst idea he’s ever had, wasn’t it.</p><p>Arthur turns a page of his book – a treatise on late medieval theatre – and scoops some of his mashed potatoes with his fork.</p><p>“I’ll ask her next Sunday,” he says absently. “Maybe she’ll have found out what happened by then. But I doubt it. As far as I know none of her friends go to St Hilda’s.”</p><p>“What’s she reading?” Tommy asks.</p><p>“Modern history. She won’t be able to graduate, of course, but she really got into the spirit of the thing.”</p><p><em>Of course</em>. Men can take degrees and graduate; women can’t. Officially, they go to colleges to attend lectures, and that’s it. Jonathan isn’t sure of the extent to which Evy is aware of this. If she isn’t, he’s not looking forward to the moment she finds out none of her hard work will be recognised<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote1sym" id="sdfootnote1anc" name="sdfootnote1anc"><sup>1</sup></a>.</p><p>He allows himself a twinge of sympathy for his sister and Arthur’s cousin, whose name he’s forgotten, before Alf Kempthorne voices the possibility that the intruders were run out of St Hilda’s by a combination of a live bull and a platoon of scholarly Valkyries holding torches and swords, and really, the mental image is so ridiculously far from reality that he bursts out laughing with the rest of the table.</p>
<hr/><p>Jonathan’s and Tommy’s misadventure in the basement of St Hilda’s has made them abandon completely the idea of finding girls to flirt with, but they still go out on Sunday like they often do since the new year. Every once in a while they like to play tourists. Oxford is a city neither actually knows outside of their usual haunts, which consist of their college, the library, and a handful of pubs. Tommy doesn’t work at the Turf that day and it’s a nice change of pace from studying.</p><p>Staying in and having a little fun underneath the covers is tempting, but the sun is shining, if not very warmly, the sky is a clean porcelain blue, and Tommy is curious to see what’s inside the glasshouses in the Botanic Garden, so off they are.</p><p>What they find in the glasshouses is a lot of exotic flowers, carnivorous plants that are a lot less fierce than their portrayals in adventure books advertise, and Arthur McAllister arm in arm with a girl.</p><p>It appears that Tommy isn’t the only one to take advantage of the occasional day off, because – wonder of wonders – Arthur’s hands are completely devoid of books for once.</p><p>“Hullo there,” he says amiably.</p><p>Arthur McAllister never said anything about courting anyone, but he did say mention his cousin. Jonathan and Tommy tip their hats to return the greeting and Jonathan takes a look at the girl.</p><p>Her hair is almost the same shade of dark red Arthur’s is; she has a pointy face and a round nose, like him. They both have the same large eyes framed by long auburn lashes, although where his are green, hers are hazel. If this girl is indeed Arthur’s cousin, and she clearly is, then the family resemblance is stronger than between Jonathan and his own sister.</p><p>“Elizabeth McAllister, my cousin,” says Arthur, and the girl bobs a slight curtsy. “Eliza, this is Tommy Ferguson and Jonathan Carnahan, from my year.”</p><p>The mention of their names brings up a funny expression in Miss McAllister’s eyes. It only flashes across her face, and she hides it quickly, but it’s definitely not a smile.</p><p>“How do you do,” she says politely nonetheless.</p><p>Jonathan gives a half-bow, trying to recall the etiquette lessons he’s had as a boy to make it look as crisp and elegant as possible, and grins.</p><p>“Whatever you’ve heard, I promise the truth isn’t actually <em>this</em> bad.”</p><p>“Unless it’s just about him,” says Tommy cheerfully, pointing at Jonathan, “in which case it’s actually worse.”</p><p>Jonathan suppresses a smile and rolls his eyes. “Don’t listen to him,” he tells Miss McAllister. “He’ll do anything to make a girl smile. Including making bad jokes at the expense of his best friend.”</p><p>The exchange draws a quick smile from the girl, a little reluctantly it seems. Her eyes warm up a little.</p><p>“What are you boys up to?” asks Arthur, who must be used by now to Jonathan’s and Tommy’s banter and how long it can go on for. He often sits across the table from them at mealtimes. Jonathan suspects he doesn’t register everything he’s hearing, though, because the only times Arthur McAllister is seen without a book when he’s eating are at formal halls<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote2sym" id="sdfootnote2anc" name="sdfootnote2anc"><sup>2</sup></a>.</p><p>Tommy gestures behind them.</p><p>“Plants, as you can see. I thought the carnivorous ones would be more exciting than that, though. Bit of a let down if you ask me.”</p><p>“That’s right,” says Jonathan, who feels this is nothing to write home about, especially considering what his parents do for a living. Carnivorous plants never feature in the written accounts of their travels, and now he knows why. “I thought these things might be big enough to feast on a rabbit or two, at least, but it turns out they only eat insects. Insects! That hardly counts as meat at all, does it?”</p><p>To his surprise, the girl doesn’t seem to find the perspective of rabbits getting devoured and digested as appalling as she might have, if the way the corner of her mouth twitches is any indication. This, to him, warrants a slightly closer look.</p><p>Jonathan vaguely remembers Arthur asserting that his cousin is ‘neither a loony nor ugly’ despite general agreement that female students must be at least one of the two. Judging someone’s mental state by virtue of two minutes of chitchat is chancy at best, but indeed Elizabeth McAllister doesn’t show any sign of eccentricity, and neither is she ugly by any means. She has large, bright eyes, a rosebud of a mouth that hides slightly protruding front teeth, and more freckles on her face than Tommy has on his entire body. Moderately pretty, just a little too plain to be called beautiful.</p><p>As far as Jonathan knows, she’s the first female student his age he has ever actually talked to. He’s tempted to ask her about her studies, find out if the workload in her college is different from theirs, if their library is well-stocked (this question pops up in his head in Evy’s voice), but after they’ve exchanged a platitude or two Arthur excuses himself politely, stating he and his cousin have an appointment for punting at Magdalen Bridge shortly.</p><p>They part ways, and Jonathan enjoys the rest of his Sunday with Tommy. The encounter – altogether unmemorable – almost immediately slips out of his mind. It’s not like he will cross paths with Miss McAllister again any time soon, after all, he reasons.</p><p>He’s wrong.</p>
<hr/><p>The rumour about the St Hilda’s intrusion never really disappears completely, but it dies down enough that Jonathan’s mind stops spinning in terror every time the subject of girls’ colleges pops up in conversation.</p><p>What happens to Herbert, he has no idea. Hopefully, he thinks with determined ferocity, the bloody ram got found out and eaten. The bruises gradually fade from his and Tommy’s bodies both along with the gossip, and it does seem like all’s well that ends well, but Jonathan tends to keep grudges until either he forgets or they die of old age.</p><p>February turns into March, and while the temperatures remain just on the warmer side of glacial, it also heralds the impending end of Hilary term, and with it the return of what Jonathan and a few similarly-minded fellow first-years nicknamed ‘hell week’. He and Tommy spend a lot of time in libraries again, in the snug at the Oxford Arms and in Jonathan’s room, going over books and translations, and quizzing themselves on the subjects they know they’re weakest at.</p><p>At least, when it’s midnight and they’re still cramming on Akkadian poetry, the <em>Pax Romana</em>, or the use of wooden models of people, animals and boats in Egyptian tombs of the Middle Kingdom, Jonathan can take comfort in the hope that the Easter holidays will empty the building again – maybe not to the extent that Christmas did, but enough to know nobody will hear if they happen to make a little noise. He longs to lose himself in Tommy again, to moan his name against his skin, to hear him cry out as he finishes inside Jonathan. Having to be quiet all the time is torture.</p><p>“I was thinking,” Jonathan says one day as they’re watching a cricket match in the Parks, “of getting a flat in town next year. What do you say?”</p><p>First-years are housed on site, but from second year on students can and often do live out. A furnished flat, not too far from the college – and the pubs – would be perfect, Jonathan thinks.</p><p>There is some annoyed shushing around him. Tommy throws him a look and drags him from the stands. It’s a cricket audience, thus fairly quiet out of respect for the players; besides, admittedly, anyone might spot the slightest word out of place with only a modicum of perception. To Jonathan, housing is a perfectly innocuous subject – indeed, he’s already heard a couple of conversations about it among his fellow first-years – but one never knows, does one.</p><p>When they are in a small secluded spot just behind the Cricket Pavilion, shielded from onlookers by the triple protection of a blind wall, thick trees and an interesting match happening elsewhere, Tommy stops and says, “A flat?”</p><p>Jonathan nods. Tommy crosses his arms, looking uncertain.</p><p>“I hadn’t really thought about it,” he says after a while. “I suppose I’ll have to dig into it. Look into prices and all that.”</p><p>Jonathan grins. “Well, I heard that rents are more reasonable if you can get yourself a flatmate.”</p><p>“That,” says Tommy carefully, “would depend on the flat, wouldn’t it?”</p><p>“Or the flatmate.” Jonathan’s voice is careful, too. He knows this is a sore point for Tommy.</p><p>Jonathan’s parents pay for studies, room and board, and still give him a generous allowance. Almost everything Tommy has, he has to work for. He sometimes allows Jonathan to buy him a pint or two, but anything else is off-limits. This is why they don’t often go to the theatre, or see concerts, or even go to formal hall more than once or twice a month, despite the food and the fact that Jonathan privately thinks Tommy cuts a fine figure in black tie. Jonathan has offered, often; Tommy has declined, always. It’s a matter of pride, he says, so Jonathan never insists.</p><p>Tommy stares at Jonathan for a bit, his face unreadable.</p><p>“If I share a rent with someone,” he says slowly, “it’s ‘alf and ‘alf. Take it or leave it.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t have it any other way, old chap.” And because this place is perfect for it, really, and because the only thing he can hear besides the faint breeze rustling branches and the distant sounds of voices and thuds from the wicket as bat hits ball, Jonathan walks right up to Tommy, almost nose to nose with him, and gives him a crooked smile.</p><p>“Although, if the flat in question happens to have thick soundproof walls, do you think I might be able to tempt you to pay a third rather than a half?”</p><p>Tommy’s ears go a bright shade of pink. Laughter shines in his eyes even as he frowns at Jonathan, who is so close Tommy is practically cross-eyed.</p><p>To Jonathan’s delight, Tommy wraps his arms around him and tips his forehead against his.</p><p>“You drive a hard bargain,” he mutters. “All right, we’ll see when we get there. It’s not even Easter yet.”</p><p>No matter how sheltered this spot is, it’s still broad daylight, so anything more than a kiss or two is out of the question. But Tommy’s lips are as eminently kissable as always, and the warm fondness in his eyes looks exactly like the one pooling in Jonathan’s stomach and suffusing his chest. Jonathan returns the embrace and laces his fingers loosely in the small of Tommy’s back.</p><p>“Don’t worry,” he says, fairly certain he’s won and feeling rather smug about it. “When we’re famous archaeologists and make a fortune <em>I</em> will pay a third and you can foot the rest of the bill.”</p><p>Tommy smirks. “Dream on, Jon.”</p><p>And kisses him.</p><p>Kissing Tommy feels as natural and good as swimming in cool water in summertime, as closing one’s eyes and feeling the sun on one’s eyelids, as wrapping one’s fingers around a cool pint in the dark warmth of a pub. It can be quick, almost distracted, just a fleeting touch; it can be playful, teasing, the promise of fun; it can be fierce, heated, made urgent by passion. Often it’s a lot of things at once. This time the kiss is long and slow, gentle enough to not arouse each other too much. There is tenderness in it, and desire, and as always just a hint of bitterness, because there are plenty of things that are rightfully illegal but kissing Tommy Ferguson honestly should not be one of them, dammit.</p><p>Jonathan closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, indulging in delicious sensations like Tommy’s breath tickling his nose and the scent of Tommy – soap, cologne, and skin – that threatens to go to his head. Tommy’s mouth is warm and soft and he feels a hand slide up his back to drape itself around his neck and <em>oh</em>, maybe it’s high time they stopped. Jonathan gives himself another five seconds, not one heartbeat more, before they break the kiss and return to the stands.</p><p>Two seconds in, a small sound reaches his ears, something between a hiccup and a gasp. Jonathan’s eyes leave Tommy’s to look to the side, and the world shatters.</p><p>There is a girl standing not two yards from them, staring at them with her eyes as large as saucers.</p><p>They have been caught.</p><p><em>Well, that’s it, old boy</em>, whispers a small voice in the back of Jonathan’s mind, <em>you’re finished</em>. In a flash, he sees the disappointment on his father’s face, the revulsion in his mother’s eyes, the disgusted twist of his sister’s mouth. His future, his home, his life – everything is over. Either he is tried and goes to prison or he flees the country right now, with nothing but the clothes on his back, preferably for the kind of place where two chaps can do whatever they like behind locked doors without fearing for their freedom or their lives.</p><p>There aren’t a lot of those.</p><p>The shock has rooted Jonathan to the spot and seemed to drive his brain out of his skull; his heart is thumping so loudly in his chest it feels like he’s dying. Distantly, as though everything is happening to somebody else and he just happens to be present, he notes small, insignificant things like the faint birdsong from somewhere in the trees, the ground dappled with winter sunlight, the way the girl’s hat is askew on her cushion of frizzy hair. He also becomes aware that Tommy has gone frighteningly pale, breaths coming in and out in gasps, as though his lungs have shrunk two sizes.</p><p>Their arms are still around each other, Jonathan realises. He should let go, really. But he doesn’t want to.</p><p>The part of his brain that still feels detached from the rest of him figuratively nudges him. He takes another look at the girl and notices a few things more.</p><p>One, she looks familiar.</p><p>Two, there are papers crumpled in her hand. A letter and an envelope, by the look of it.</p><p>Three, her face is blotchy and drenched in drying tears.</p><p>Four, where Tommy has gone very white, she has gone bright red to the hairline.</p><p>“I—I do beg your pardon,” she stammers.</p><p>The way the deep inhale Jonathan takes seems to sear the inside of his chest tells him he might have stopped breathing at some point.</p><p>“It’s quite all right,” he says, purely by reflex. His voice sounds strange to his own ears, wheezy and a little too high.</p><p>Beside him, Tommy gives a strangled gasp and his breathing seems to even a little bit.</p><p>“You’re not…” He gulps. “Are you goin’ to go to the police?”</p><p>The girl, still staring, shakes her head a fraction.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Her gaze drops to the ground, then to her hand, still clutching the letter. When she looks up she’s still crimson, but her features have softened.</p><p>“No,” she repeats in a slightly firmer voice, “I’m not. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”</p><p>The sudden terror felt like being hit with a bolt of lightning. The sudden relief has more or less the same effect. It rushes through Jonathan from head to toe like a fever, leaving him light-headed, legs unsteady, grateful for Tommy’s arm around his waist, even if it’s shaking as badly as he is.</p><p>“If nobody minds,” he says weakly, “I think I should like to sit down.”</p><p>They all do, as it turns out.</p><p>They find a bench along the South Walk, facing the distant wicket where the players are indistinct white dots moving on the green canvas of trees. They sit in the sun, like students have sat there for decades, as though the world hasn’t stopped and started again a little faster, a little weirder. The girl attempts to flatten the creases in her letter on her lap; Tommy gives her a look.</p><p>“Are you all right?” he asks gently.</p><p>The girl looks puzzled until Jonathan silently hands her his handkerchief. She goes slightly pink as she takes it. The blotches on her face have faded, leaving only a constellation of freckles, and suddenly Jonathan recognises her as Arthur McAllister’s cousin, whom they saw briefly a few weeks ago.</p><p>“Yes, thank you.” She delicately wipes her wet cheeks and her eyes drop to her hands again, one holding the handkerchief and the other the letter. Both are shaking a little.</p><p>“Did you get bad news, then?” says Jonathan, mostly to say something. The girl’s reaction completely wrong-footed him. It goes against everything he knows, everything he has ever learned, and – quite frankly – anything he might have expected from a girl so prim and shy she could barely talk to them.</p><p>Miss McAllister hands him back his handkerchief and folds both letter and envelope together to stuff them into her handbag, almost ferociously. She has been clutching the paper so tightly the ink has left faint traces on her gloves.</p><p>“My, um. My grandfather died,” she says in an odd tone of voice that makes Jonathan think there is more to it than just a death in the family.</p><p>“My condolences,” he says automatically just as Tommy says “I’m so sorry for your loss.”</p><p>She acknowledges both of them with a slight nod and says, curiosity livening up her voice a little, “I have… seen you before, haven’t I?”</p><p>“Yes you have,” says Jonathan. “We saw you with your cousin last month in the—”</p><p>“In the… glasshouse of the Botanic Garden. I remember.” Miss McAllister’s eyes go just a little round and she colours again behind her freckles. “<em>You</em>’re –” she looks at Tommy “– Thomas Ferguson, and you’re Jonathan… Jonathan Carnahan, is that correct?”</p><p>“That’s right!” says Tommy with a smile. “And you’re Elizabeth, right?”</p><p>Elizabeth blushes. “Elizabeth McAllister, yes. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”</p><p>Jonathan squints at her.</p><p>“What <em>did</em> you hear about us, really?” Fear, which has tiptoed out but stayed by the door, sneaks back in, and he feels the blood drain from his face. “Anything to do with – with –”</p><p>He makes a vague hand gesture between him and Tommy, who pales again, and Elizabeth hastens to say, “Oh, no! No – not at all. Just… um.” She blinks. “Well, some of my classmates are under the impression that you… well. That you like talking to girls a lot.” She pauses, blushes a little deeper – which makes her freckles stand out that much more – and frowns. “But if you… Oh, I understand. You don’t like girls at all, but want to look like you do to be safe.”</p><p>Tommy clumsily fiddles with his hat. “We do, really. I mean, we both like girls, too. Just…” His eyes slide to Jonathan and he smiles a little. “Not right now.”</p><p>Despite the awkwardness of the situation, despite the anxiety still lurking in his stomach, Jonathan smiles back.</p><p>Elizabeth’s eyes go from one to the other with calm determination and something that isn’t quite a smile yet.</p><p>“I really won’t tell a soul,” she says quietly. “I swear.”</p><p>“Thank you,” says Jonathan with absolute sincerity for once. Beside him, Tommy nods solemnly.</p><p>Silence falls. Around them, the world keeps turning, all the more enjoyable for having ground to a screeching halt and almost crashed moments before.</p><p>And then Elizabeth covers her mouth with a hand to stifle a laugh. Jonathan throws her a curious look.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she says, and her hand doesn’t entirely hide her smile, “but if you had only liked boys it would have explained a lot.”</p><p>“What d’you mean?” Tommy asks, sounding puzzled.</p><p>“Well, one of the girls you tried to… court, for lack of a better word, happens to be a friend of mine, and she was <em>not</em> impressed, to say the least. She said your manners were appalling.”</p><p>“I know how to behave!” protests Tommy.</p><p>“I’ve had <em>lessons</em>!” whines Jonathan.</p><p>Elizabeth’s smile is wider, showing her slightly prominent incisors, but this time she doesn’t cover her lips.</p><p>“Be that as it may, according to Marjory you were ‘an improbable mix of oblivious and persistent, a little obnoxious, and altogether rather louche’.”</p><p>The way she says this suggests she’s quoting her friend verbatim. Jonathan and Tommy look at each other, dismayed. If this is indeed what they come across as, no wonder they failed to find a single girl to – like Elizabeth said – court, for lack of a better word.</p><p>Elizabeth looks at them, and her gaze softens.</p><p>“Very well,” she says primly, smoothing out the folds of her dress and folding her hands in her lap. “Why don’t you show me how you usually talk to girls? I might be able to tell you where you’ve gone wrong.”</p><p>Jonathan and Tommy exchange a look. Then –</p><p>“Good afternoon, miss,” says Jonathan as smoothly as he can. “Lovely weather we’re having, what? I wonder if you’d be interested in a cup of tea? I know just the place.”</p><p>Elizabeth stares at him, her face unreadable. Then she turns to Tommy.</p><p>“Ey oop, love,” he says cheerfully. “Read any good books lately?”</p><p>Elizabeth blinks once, twice. Then – quite unexpectedly – she dissolves into peals of helpless laughter, her face in her hands.</p><p>“I beg your pardon,” Jonathan huffs, nettled. “We weren’t <em>that</em> bad, were we?”</p><p>Beside him, Tommy looks equally stung. “What’s wrong with books? It en’t that bad a conversation opener, is it?”</p><p>“It’s not,” says Elizabeth once she has caught her breath and schooled her face back into the appropriate self-possession. Her eyes are still shining with mirth, though. “It <em>is</em> a little unconventional, but we are in Oxford, and a student might appreciate the chance to talk about something else than her needlework or the latest play.” Her expression softens. “Your approach is much too… informal, however. A little more decorum is essential if you want to make polite conversation, especially in these parts.”</p><p>Tommy’s face falls.</p><p>“Meanin’ I sound like an oik. And a Northern one, at that.”</p><p>“I didn’t say that.”</p><p>“I’ve tried to get rid of me accent, you know.”</p><p><em>You shouldn’t have to</em>, Jonathan thinks fiercely. Just when he’s about to chime in with something to that effect, he notices Elizabeth is looking a little sad.</p><p>“I don’t doubt it,” she says softly, before adding in a slightly firmer voice, “But calling a girl ‘love’ will not do you any favours. That sort of term of address is strictly reserved for family members and, um, intimate acquaintances, I’m afraid.”</p><p>And then she turns to Jonathan with a critical eye.</p><p>“Now,” she says, “Mr Carnahan.”</p><p>“I said ‘miss’ and talked about the weather!” he points out hastily. “Surely I can’t have been that awful?”</p><p>“You <em>were</em> doing decently enough until you invited me to join you elsewhere, presumably for a drink.”</p><p>“‘Presumably’ nothing, I explicitly mentioned getting a cuppa –”</p><p>“You invited a woman to follow you alone, without chaperon, maybe to a place a lot less public than here. Have you any idea how that sounds?”</p><p>Jonathan’s mouth opens and closes as he realises the implications. It <em>had</em> sounded innocent enough in his head. Granted, if he and Tommy were not committed to each other the way they are, he might have insinuated something like what Elizabeth is alluding to some time after having made someone’s acquaintance, but that would hardly be the first thing he says to a girl. Even more so a man. That sort of dance requires a delicate approach and some very careful verbal and non-verbal manoeuvres first.</p><p>“But I wouldn’t have—” His hands flitter to convey what he means in a less crude way than words. Elizabeth shakes her head with a slight smile.</p><p>“How was I to know that? I’m sure I don’t need to tell you no-one knows what goes on in a person’s head. You might have had ill intentions for all I knew. Besides, it is highly improper.”</p><p>Tommy nods glumly.</p><p>“So that settles it. We’re both equally terrible.” One corner of his mouth quirks into a smirk. “I told you so, didn’t I?”</p><p>Jonathan makes a face, and Elizabeth looks curious.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“It was Jon’s idea to flirt with girls. You know, to look like we weren’t…”</p><p>“Involved?” Elizabeth suggests delicately.</p><p>“Not just that, but also… Well. To avoid suspicion in a general sense.” Tommy scratches the back of his head, ruffling his hair a little.</p><p>Elizabeth looks thoughtful.</p><p>“If you appeared to… how shall I put it… compete for a lady’s favour, would that help?”</p><p>“It would,” says Jonathan. “But I think we’ve established that we’re—”</p><p>“Hang on,” Tommy interrupts, “are you suggestin’ we pretend to court you?”</p><p>Elizabeth looks down again.</p><p>“I realise I would hardly be anyone’s first choice,” she says quietly. Tommy gives a vehement shake of his head.</p><p>“That’s not what I meant. It wouldn’t be fair to you, would it?”</p><p>To Jonathan’s surprise, the subdued expression on Elizabeth’s face makes way for a small smile.</p><p>“It would, actually. I have been under, er, some amount of pressure to find potential suitors. Some of my family are… very insistent.”</p><p>Her eyes flick down to her handbag and the letter she’s had to fold several times to fit in it. She takes a deep breath before meeting their eyes again.</p><p>“You needn’t do anything you don’t want to,” she adds quickly. “Only… well, we might see one another sometimes, over tea –” her eyes twinkle at Jonathan “– or to talk about books –” she looks at Tommy with a shy smile “– and I could help you with the dos and don’ts of courtship. What do you say?”</p><p>“Just to be clear,” says Jonathan carefully, “you’re offering a scheme?”</p><p>“I’m offering my friendship,” she replies, “that is all.”</p><p>It almost sounds too good to be true. Jonathan studies the set of the girl’s shoulders, a little tense, the way her fingers grip her handbag just a little tightly, the reserved yet earnest expression in her eyes. There is diffidence here, that much is obvious, but also candour, and not a trace of deception. He wants to believe her, really he does, but having a third person know what goes on between him and Tommy is making him more than a little nervous.</p><p>Tommy looks at her soberly and extends his hand.</p><p>“Deal,” he says simply. Then he adds with a smile, “Friends.”</p><p>Elizabeth takes the tip of his fingers a little awkwardly – handshakes are not at all common in the upper classes, let alone for a woman – and smiles, too.</p><p>It’s the smile that does it. Jonathan finally makes his decision and nods.</p><p>“Friends,” he says, and then, because it really does feel like they’re cinching a deal, “partners.”</p><p>Elizabeth goes very pink – clearly she does that a lot – and her smile widens a little. Emboldened, Jonathan picks up her gloved hand and gives her his most roguish grin.</p><p>“Pleasure doing business with you, Lizzie.”</p><p>Just as he bends to give the back of her hand a kiss, he hears her say in a voice that would sound stern if she could manage to keep her smile out of it, “Lips do not touch the hand for a baisemain, Mr Carnahan.”</p><p>Jonathan <em>has</em> had lessons in manners. He just tends to blithely forget everything he learns. Maybe a refresher class in etiquette wouldn’t actually go amiss after all.</p><p>He lets out a mock sigh of annoyance as Tommy chuckles and Elizabeth struggles to keep a straight face.</p><p>Perhaps there is something to be said for serendipity, after all.</p>
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<p></p><div>
  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote1anc" id="sdfootnote1sym" name="sdfootnote1sym">1</a>Fortunately, society did move forwards between this point and when Evy is old enough to enter university/study for a degree. Women finally were allowed to take degrees in 1920.</p>
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  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote2anc" id="sdfootnote2sym" name="sdfootnote2sym">2</a>Formal dress dinners. Exeter College has them about three or four times a week.</p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay, this was the last big scare, I promise. I originally wrote this to indulge in occasionally naked idiots being soft, not having them get arrested. <strike>Besides, I have other things in store for them...</strike> 😘</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>The courting of Elizabeth McAllister – The question of intimacy – Dancing lessons – Love, and the making and aching thereof</i><br/>(NSFW)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next time Jonathan and Tommy see Elizabeth, she’s waiting for them on the bench where they sat last time, engrossed in a thick book about the Seven Years’ War. Beside her are two more books, one shut, one open.</p><p>“Hell week coming up?” Jonathan asks, and her mouth twitches.</p><p>“Something like that.”</p><p>She gathers her books, and because the weather is cold and looks undecided about rain they retreat to the Cup and Chaucer<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote1sym" id="sdfootnote1anc" name="sdfootnote1anc"><sup>1</sup></a>, a little café near the Water Meadow, on the bank of the Cherwell. People’s gazes follow them to a table until Jonathan tells the waiter in a slightly louder voice than is necessary that his cousin would very much like an extra lump of sugar, if that’s all right. They don’t look related, certainly not the way Elizabeth and Arthur do, but Jonathan’s word and the fact that their accents aren’t too different are enough to dispel the suspicion that an Unmarried Young Woman is sharing her table with two Unmarried Young Men without a chaperon.</p><p>“So do I take this to mean I have another cousin now?” Elizabeth asks, sounding amused.</p><p>“To be honest,” says Jonathan, who rarely is but makes the occasional exception, “I’d rather be a friend. I have no idea what a cousin is supposed to do.”</p><p>Elizabeth picks up her teacup and saucer from the tray the waiter brought and carefully tests the temperature.</p><p>“Well,” she says, “Arthur accompanies me to plays, to cafés, sometimes to the library. He’s very good company, even when he forgets to get his nose out of his books. Is that how he is with you, as well?”</p><p>“Oh yes,” says Tommy, just as Jonathan says “Absolutely.” Elizabeth smiles.</p><p>“He’s like a close friend, I should imagine, except his father is my father’s younger brother. Don’t you have cousins then, Mr Carnahan?”</p><p>Jonathan shifts uncomfortably in his seat.</p><p>He does have cousins. At least half a dozen of them, he thinks, and that’s just on his father’s side. But he’s never seen them, never talked to them. His father’s whole family severed ties with him after his wedding, and the only cousins Jonathan has heard of are the ones who were born before him. Maybe he has more, but he has no way to know.</p><p>“I have a few,” he says after some hesitation. After all, Elizabeth already knows his most intimate secret. To a certain extent, his family situation is public knowledge and hardly compares to something that could actually get him jailed. “But not only I’ve never seen them, I’m not even certain they know I exist. So my knowledge of the species and how they behave is somewhat restricted.”</p><p>Elizabeth stirs her tea and says nothing. The polite, proper thing to do would be to avoid a potential social embarrassment and steer the subject away from family entirely, but Jonathan realises he actually wants her to ask. He wants to know whether this prim, sheltered girl will still look at him the same way when he tells her his mother is a native from the colonies.</p><p>Of course, when she saw him and Tommy snogging the other day her first reaction was to get flustered rather than outraged or disgusted, so maybe there is hope – maybe this is another thing she doesn’t have any particular prepossession about. But it doesn’t hurt to check.</p><p>Jonathan sips some of his tea, burning his tongue in the process because he was a little too nervous to stop and check the temperature, and says, “Apparently, when an Englishman marries an Egyptian woman the correct procedure for their respective families is to cut off the newly-weds completely. Hence why my sister and I never did get a chance to actually meet our cousins, I’m afraid.”</p><p>Elizabeth gives him a long, thoughtful look. Jonathan resists the urge to squirm, and Tommy’s shoulders tense a little.</p><p>Finally she gives a small smile and asks, “What is your sister’s name?”</p><p>Jonathan releases a breath he hadn’t quite been aware of holding. “Evy. Well, Evelyn. She’s twelve.”</p><p>“That’s quite a difference,” says Elizabeth, still in the tone of polite conversation, but with the hint of warmth in her eyes. “My sister Caroline is four years older than I am. I used to think she was quite the grown-up when I was younger.”</p><p>Tommy’s shoulders relax, Jonathan breathes a little easier, and the conversation continues on other subjects which, if they aren’t quite as personal, are not less engaging for it.</p>
<hr/><p>They continue to meet weekly, sometimes in the café, often elsewhere, like the Botanic Garden or the bench in the Parks, and even once or twice – because their respective workloads these days are considerable – inside the venerable walls of the Bodleian Library. This kind of setting is not one for chitchat, not even between Jonathan and Tommy, so they only communicate with looks, fleeting grins, and scraps of paper passed around.</p><p><em>What are you doing for the Easter vacation?</em> asks Jonathan’s paper, which he slips to Elizabeth. He already knows what Tommy is doing, namely work at the Turf except for the week between Palm Sunday and Easter Monday. As for him, he’ll be in town for the whole holidays. His parents got invited to a conference in Rome and they’re taking Evy for a three-week tour of Italy.</p><p>Elizabeth takes the paper, hesitates a little, and writes. When Jonathan opens it, it reads <em>Staying in Oxford. I might as well get a head on next term. Trinity term is the worst. So much work and so many distractions</em>.</p><p>She would know: Elizabeth is a year above him and Tommy, and she already has had to face the dreaded end-of-year exams. Besides, the Boat Race is a week into the Easter holidays, but Trinity term ends just before Commemoration Week and the Summer Eights. It’ll be a wonder if they can get any work done and pass the year.</p><p><em>Well</em>, writes Jonathan, <em>misery loves company. The three of us will moan and gripe together. You won’t be going home at all, then?</em></p><p>The reply comes when Elizabeth reads the note, catches his eyes, and shakes her head with an almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw. She goes back to her work and keeps the scrap of paper, clearly signalling this matter is closed.</p><p>Jonathan mentally reviews everything Elizabeth has ever said about her family. He’s acquainted with her cousin Arthur; he knows she has a sister named Caroline, and a grandfather, recently deceased. That is it. Neither he nor Tommy has asked; etiquette rules dictate that personal information is off-limits unless offered by the person it concerns. But Jonathan has a nagging feeling that something is not quite right about Elizabeth’s refusal to go home, and that being informed of her grandfather’s passing was not the sole reason she was in tears when they met her.</p><p>The last thing he wants to do is pry, though, so he keeps it to himself.</p>
<hr/><p>The week before the holidays is so intense that Jonathan hardly even sees Tommy, let alone Elizabeth. He and Tommy barely have the energy to grab a celebratory pint the evening after the last exam before they drag themselves back to the halls at half past eight and collapse into Jonathan’s bed. Two minutes later they sleep like the dead.</p><p>When Jonathan wakes up the next morning, the sun is shining outside, he only has a minor headache – the result of the past week more than last night’s libations for once – and he doesn’t have any classes to go to for three weeks. He and Tommy fell asleep half a dozen inches apart, but now they are snuggling each other, Tommy’s bare back – bare everything, really – quite comfortably nestled against Jonathan’s front, which obviously has woken up some time before his brain did.</p><p>He’s awake before Tommy for once. When this fact registers Jonathan feels a little smug.</p><p>Just as he slips an arm around Tommy’s waist to lay a hand on his stomach, soft and yielding and very, very warm, he feels Tommy take his hand and guide him down, and Jonathan realises two things at the same time.</p><p>One, he wasn’t the first to wake up after all.</p><p>Two, every part of Tommy is just as awake as Jonathan is.</p><p>Finding out that he can never seem to beat Tommy to a state of consciousness might make him a little miffed in other circumstances, but it’s the least of his concerns right now. He is warm, aroused, and very much in love, and Tommy is right there in his arms in the exact same state – really, is there a better way to wake up than this?</p><p>Jonathan kisses Tommy between the shoulder blades and mumbles “Good morning” against his skin. Tommy makes a pleased, still sleepy noise and glances at him over his shoulder, eyes barely open.</p><p>“’Mornin’, Jon. Looks like hell week didn’t kill us after all.”</p><p>It feels like it, too. Jonathan is very much alive, and judging from the heartbeat against his chest and the solid warmth in his hand, so is Tommy.</p><p>Jonathan’s hand moves in long, slow caresses, gradually bringing everything from a state of mild interest to ardent attention. His fingers play with sensitive spots, making Tommy sigh and squirm against him, which in turn increases his own, er, interest.</p><p>Unlike the last holidays, practically nobody in the halls has gone home. Everyone is looking forward to going to London next week to see the Boat Race. As badly as Jonathan wants to let his other hand explore the other side of Tommy to see if he’s willing to take things a little further, he knows he can’t – not if they can’t stay silent, or at least quiet.</p><p>They <em>have</em> played with caution before: the heated kiss in the snug of the Oxford Arms, their little adventure in the boathouse cabinet that resulted in soiled drawers, the snog Elizabeth accidentally interrupted a few weeks ago. That was dangerous enough. But if someone should hear them and find them one inside the other, then the punishment would not be two years of hard labour and a ruined life. They would be thrown in prison until they died.</p><p>So Jonathan keeps stroking, and Tommy keeps pressing against him; they sigh, they moan, and they murmur, but nothing louder. Jonathan has his arms and hands full of Tommy, which is exactly as he likes it – they almost always face each other in some capacity, because bringing each other to the edge and falling off the world holding each other tight is so much better than holding a pillow. Right now, Tommy doesn’t seem to mind; he is pushing against Jonathan as if he wants the skin of his back to melt into Jonathan’s chest, gasping softly as Jonathan’s fingers tickle or squeeze, and if it’s not quite enough to bring release yet Jonathan knows Tommy is fairly close.</p><p>But then something occurs to him.</p><p>He lets go of Tommy’s prick and plants a kiss on his nape before turning to the bedside table.</p><p>“Jon?” comes Tommy’s voice, sounding just a little too puzzled to be frustrated – yet. “What the ‘ell are you—”</p><p>“If I say I have an idea,” says Jonathan, fiddling with the lid of the jar of petroleum jelly, “are you going to say ‘count me out’ and go back up to your room?”</p><p>Tommy rolls on his back and gives him a deadpan look.</p><p>“Like <em>this</em>? I shouldn’t think so. What are you doin’ with that? I thought we said we’d save it for when we’re alone.”</p><p>“We are,” says Jonathan, hurrying back under the covers and dipping his fingers into the jelly. Oh, but the bloody thing is <em>cold</em>. “I just thought of something that might be the next best thing.”</p><p>“The next—oh. You mean between my –?”</p><p>“Mh-hm.”</p><p>Tommy blinks, grins.</p><p>“Yeah, all right.”</p><p>The next moment, they’re skin to skin again, Jonathan’s hand around Tommy’s prick, his nose bumping into Tommy’s bare shoulder as he slips his fingers between his thighs to position himself. The jelly makes everything slick and smooth; the inside of Tommy’s legs isn’t quite as hot and tight as Tommy himself is, but right now that hardly matters. Soon they are rocking in tandem, breathing in unison, pushing and sliding and thrusting. Tommy reaches blindly behind his back and manages to grab the back of Jonathan’s head; against Jonathan his back and shoulders move as his lungs expand with every inhale, deep long breaths he lets out with a broad smile.</p><p>Making love, Jonathan has realised ever since he admitted his heart was just as lost as the rest of him, is not only about entering your partner or having said partner enter you, to put it crudely. When he was in school, at the age when a boy starts to find girls attractive – or boys, although awkward fumbling between boys is usually chalked up to childhood indiscretions, and as one grows up one is encouraged to put away childish things, as the Good Book says – such things were almost never talked about without at least some amount of sniggering. Such was the fate of any subject related to bodily functions: deemed too embarrassing to warrant serious discussion. Classmates with older brothers or a little more knowledge of the world than the rest generally agreed on the fact that ‘making love’ meant ‘putting your thing into her nothing’ – otherwise, it hardly counted. But there it stopped.</p><p>Jonathan has fooled around before. He likes fooling around. With the right partner, the right mood, it can be a lot of fun – a romp in the sheets with Tommy always is. But what he has discovered with Tommy is that making love isn’t restricted to sticking body parts into someone else. Sometimes it just means holding one another tightly, kissing as though Tommy’s lungs will give him the breath he’s currently missing, and rubbing until they see stars. Other times it means seeing one’s smile on the other’s face as hands grasp and squeeze each other, pulling small hairs and feeling each other’s life pulse and throb in their hands. And yes, sometimes it also means shouting nonsense as Tommy thrusts into him and fills him and holds him until they break.</p><p>Right now, it means sliding in and out of the heat between Tommy’s thighs, holding his body close, and breathing out his name against the freckles of his shoulders while he murmurs Jonathan’s. It’s not a firestorm this time, but steadier, calmer, like heat from a stove slowly but surely warming you up from your toes to the tips of your hair.</p><p>There is only one letter that separates a whisper and a whimper. Jonathan and Tommy both straddle that line when they come off, Tommy with a shudder as he spills into the handkerchief he just seized, Jonathan a minute later, his sigh muffled as he buries his face between Tommy’s shoulder blades.</p><p>They remain where they are for a while, nestled in each other’s warmth, Jonathan’s arms around Tommy, who finally breathes out, “That is… that’s a great way to start the day.”</p><p>“There’s none finer in my book.” Jonathan sets a kiss on Tommy’s shoulder, and Tommy rolls around to wrap himself around him. His blond hair is mussed and tangled, both from sleep and rubbing against the pillow as he writhed and arched his back in Jonathan’s arms, his cheeks are flushed and his eyes shine bright under half-closed eyelids.</p><p>They’re going to have to clean the sticky, slippery mess between them, not to mention air the room, which smells close and musky and rather violently intimate, but as usual all Jonathan can bring himself to register is the tight, warm feeling in his chest mingled – as always – with the faint anxiety coiled inside his stomach. It translates as both <em>God I love him</em> and <em>Oh bloody hell, I love him</em>. Usually the first overpowers the second; right now, for instance, the odds are about seventy-thirty in favour of overwhelming love rather than cold panic. Not bad.</p><p>“Still,” Tommy sighs, “I might take you up on your offer to pay two thirds of the rent if we can find a flat with thick walls next year and I can’t afford to pay a half. There’s a few other ways to start the day I’m lookin’ forward to.”</p><p>He grins at Jonathan, who grins back and feels his cheeks heat up a little more. Tommy Ferguson making innuendos is an improbable mix of hilarious and arousing, because with his broad face and his round brown eyes he has a knack for looking quite innocent. Jonathan knows better, of course.</p><p>“Ah well,” says Jonathan as he absently runs his fingers on Tommy’s round shoulder, “the halls will probably be a lot more empty next week. Everyone will want to go to London to see the Boat Race. It’d be a shame to skip it, though. Seeing the Dark Blues trounce Cambridge for the seventh time in a row would be splendid.”</p><p>“To hell with the Boat Race,” Tommy mutters before laying his head on Jonathan’s chest – which doesn’t quite conceal the fact that his face turns crimson, “it’s you I want. I just wish everybody would bugger off so we could enjoy our holidays properly, like last time.”</p><p>Jonathan snorts, half because of Tommy’s turn of phrase and half to hide how foolishly happy hearing Tommy say “it’s <em>you</em> I want” made him.</p><p>“Interesting choice of words there, old chap.” He kisses his hair and states with a feeble attempt at seriousness, “I suppose I could give it a miss this year. But you can’t say ‘To hell with the Boat Race’, you know. It’s tradition – almost a hundred years old. Besides, I hear the post-victory celebrations are usually quite something.”</p><p>“Jon, it’s just a race. Sixteen blokes in two boats and water so cold a duck wouldn’t swim in it. Why do they even have to have it in March?”</p><p>“I understand it had something to do with the Easter vacation,” Jonathan says distractedly. “Eights Week is later in the year here, they couldn’t very well have a competition in London at the same time. Anyway, you simply cannot say ‘To hell with the Boat Race’. It’s just not done.”</p>
<hr/><p>“Oh, to hell with the Boat Race!” Jonathan exclaims a week later when Elizabeth asks him why he and Tommy haven’t hopped on a train along with practically all of Oxford. She blushes and throws him a half amused, half slightly reproving look; but Jonathan can’t help it. Since the day before the halls are even more devoid of people than they were in the first week of the Christmas holidays, meaning he and Tommy had a jolly good time making each other gasp and laugh and shout last night without holding back, and this without even going for the little jar in the bedside table. They have plenty of time for that later. How wonderful is that?</p><p>Consequently Jonathan is in a <em>very</em> good mood. The fact that the Parks are so empty right now he might even be able to kiss Tommy in broad daylight with no repercussions only makes him happier. Even the weather seems to agree: the sky is a clear blue with a few white clouds, the sun is warmer than it’s been in months, and the grass is almost dry where they spread a blanket for the picnic.</p><p>Tommy puts down the basket and snorts helplessly.</p><p>“Sorry, Liz,” he says when Elizabeth turns a puzzled look to him. “He gave me this whole speech about the Boat Race this and traditions that, and in the end he just throws all of it to the wind because he’s glad everyone left.”</p><p>Elizabeth looks a little nonplussed.</p><p>“You don’t strike me as the antisocial sort,” she points out. “Why are you so happy to be alone?”</p><p>Jonathan can’t help it.</p><p>“Because, my dear Lizzie,” he says with a grin, taking Tommy’s arm as though they’re walking out of the pub, “kissing this fine fellow as he deserves to be kissed – which is quite thoroughly and without a stitch on – requires nothing less than complete privacy, and the walls of our students’ accommodations are much too thin. Wouldn’t want someone to hear what we get up to behind closed doors, would we?”</p><p>Anything directly or indirectly related to intimacy – any form of it – always flusters Elizabeth to some extent. Teasing her, flirting with the limits of her sense of propriety, all the while knowing she won’t think any less of him is a lot of fun. Right now, she’s staring at him, befuddlement quickly making way for red-faced mortification. It only gets worse when she looks at Tommy, who shakes his head at Jonathan and grins.</p><p>“He gets noisy when he’s happy,” he says, pointing a thumb at Jonathan. Who splutters indignantly.</p><p>“I <em>beg</em> your pardon. Don’t listen to him,” he tells Elizabeth, who is currently looking like she would very much like not to listen to either one of them. “We <em>both</em> tend to be a little loud given the right incentive. Which is why I’m so pleased by the current circumstances. We’re practically the only ones living in the halls right now!”</p><p>“Mr Carnahan, <em>please</em>,” Elizabeth all but begs as she sits down on the blanket, her face crimson up to the hairline. “May we change the subject?”</p><p>“Gladly.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“Although I did say ‘Jonathan’ was fine by me, really. Several times, in fact. I did say that, didn’t I?”</p><p>“You certainly did, Mr Carnahan.”</p><p>This is said with a faint smile and a hint of what might be wickedness in a different person. Elizabeth McAllister really is straight-laced and diffident, but part of what makes her more than an ally of convenience is that little spark of mischief that so rarely gets to see the light.</p><p>Their sham courtship is a game they’re playing, all three of them, which Jonathan knows she enjoys as much as he and Tommy do. How they address each other is but one aspect of it. Tommy calls her ‘Liz’ unless other people are around, in which case it’s ‘Miss McAllister’; she calls him ‘Mr Ferguson’, unless they are alone – then she often calls him ‘Tom’. Jonathan likes ‘Lizzie’ a lot, the playful informality of it, which she typically responds to by the persistent use of his last name. In the privacy of his head, though, he calls her ‘Elizabeth’, and she has called him ‘Jonathan’ once or twice when it was just the three of them and the conversation turned to a special kind of peace and quiet.</p><p>It is peaceful and quiet here, as well. Jonathan has never seen the Parks – or their little corner of it – so silent and empty. They brought ham sandwiches and apples in a basket Tommy borrowed from the Turf after his shift this morning. When they have polished every one of them, they make themselves comfortable on the blanket: Elizabeth sits straight-backed, twiddling her parasol a little sometimes, Tommy lies down on his back with his hat on his eyes and his hands folded behind his head, and Jonathan – after some hesitation – settles down across from him with his head on his stomach, minding the buttons of his waistcoat.</p><p>To hell with the Boat Race indeed.</p><p>Just as Jonathan is starting to drowse – a post-lunch nap is tempting and Tommy is as comfortable as ever – he hears Elizabeth’s quiet voice.</p><p>“May I ask you a… a very personal question?”</p><p>Jonathan opens his eyes to see whom she means to ask, but since her eyes slide from one to the other he surmises the question is aimed at the both of them.</p><p>Tommy tips up his hat with a finger to peek from under the brim and gives her a curious look.</p><p>“What kind of ‘personal’?”</p><p>Elizabeth’s freckles dance across her nose as she flushes very pink. She really does seem to exist in a constant state of duality between ‘normal complexion’ and ‘blushing’. It’s rather funny, really.</p><p>“<em>Quite</em> personal. Um.” She stops and fiddles with the crook handle of her parasol. “You are under no obligation to answer, if it makes you uncomfortable,” she adds, dropping her gaze to the ground.</p><p><em>Well</em>. This sounds promising. Whatever the question is, it sounds like it’s making <em>her</em> greatly uncomfortable. Tommy takes his hat off his face while Jonathan opens his eyes fully, not moving from his position.</p><p>“We’ll only know when we hear it,” he says evenly.</p><p>This seems to bolster Elizabeth’s confidence somewhat.</p><p>“When you… You were kissing when we met. When we met properly, that is. And… Obviously you like it, otherwise you wouldn’t keep kissing each other when the penalty is so severe.”</p><p>Jonathan opens his mouth to say something, but Tommy nudges him into silence. After a second’s thinking, Jonathan concedes the point. Elizabeth still hasn’t voiced her question, after all.</p><p>“So, erm. My question… which you probably will think is really quite idiotic, not to mention intrusive… Um.” She looks up, her face crimson, and asks in a rush, “What is it about kissing that makes you happy and, well, ‘loud’?”</p><p>Jonathan opens and closes his mouth again, and this time Tommy does the same thing. They look at each other, bewildered, because how do you answer this kind of question, really? The subject of what happens in a bedroom – even between a married couple – is one of the biggest taboos there are, a taboo that gets even more unutterable when a woman is present. Allowances are made for procreation, but that’s not what Elizabeth asked at all.</p><p>Tommy sits up, abruptly dislodging Jonathan from his spot on his stomach.</p><p>“Well, for starters,” he says gently, “kissing is right nice, but that’s not… There are other ways that, er…”</p><p><em>Oh dear</em>.</p><p>Elizabeth’s face is still scarlet up to what Jonathan can see of her ears where they disappear into her hair; her expression is equal parts waiting for the earth to open up beneath her and genuine interest. She keeps her eyes on Tommy, though, so Tommy scratches the back of his neck and takes a deep breath. He looks at Jonathan, a silent plea for help, but in vain. Jonathan has no idea how to answer Elizabeth’s question in a way that won’t make her – or himself – drop dead of embarrassment on the spot. So Tommy shoots him a wry glance and continues, probably aware that he, too, is getting rather red in the face.</p><p>“There’s lots of other ways to give each other pleasure,” he mumbles. “From – from touching, or caressing. Some are sweet, some, er… really, really nice, and some others are just… Well, sometimes things get so intense that you, er… you can’t keep quiet.”</p><p>His face is so red it looks like his head is going to emit steam and take off. His own freckles stand out on his cheeks and across his nose, though not as much as Elizabeth’s do. Jonathan would find it very endearing if he wasn’t currently trying to keep his own mind off the kind of pleasure that makes them ‘loud’, which is very, <em>very</em> improper to even think about in the presence of a lady. He is failing so hard at that he’s sure even Elizabeth might be able to read everything she wants to know from his face, and more.</p><p>Elizabeth still looks incredibly mortified at her own question, but nods. From the look of it, however, something keeps troubling her. She takes a few deep breaths, looks down at her hands currently gripping the crook handle of her parasol so hard the fabric of her gloves is straining over the knuckles, and asks, her voice barely louder than a murmur, “This kind of pleasure. From kissing and – and touching. Is it only for men? Or can women feel it, as well?”</p><p>This time Tommy turns to Jonathan, looking a little ill at ease – for different reasons, Jonathan surmises. Not that they have had entire conversations about it, but from what Jonathan gathered, Tommy doesn’t have a lot of experience in the kind of pleasure that makes someone (man or woman) want to shout. In fact, he knows he was Tommy’s first dance partner for a lot of different dances. Some of those were completely new for Jonathan as well; they figured out the steps together. Tommy is even the first person whose name Jonathan considers filling his entire dance card with for the foreseeable future.</p><p>The fact remains that Jonathan is the only one out of the three of them who can answer this question with any kind of authority. Which, considering his own experience isn’t as extensive as he likes to pretend, is somewhat sad.</p><p>So he decides to keep to the facts.</p><p>“When things run their course properly, yes,” he all but croaks. “Yes, a woman can definitely feel pleasure if, er. Things are done well.”</p><p>It’s not the best answer he could have given, he knows, but it’s the only one his brain has come up with. At least Elizabeth appears satisfied with it. She gives him a slight nod, and her fingers relax slightly around the handle of her parasol.</p><p>The question has thrown Jonathan somewhat, and not just because acknowledging physical contact can exist between two people for reasons other than practical is essentially unheard of in polite society. He knows how the world works; he knows Elizabeth, considering her age and position on the social ladder, has most likely never been touched in a way that could bring her pleasure of any kind. That will have to wait until she finds a suitor – a proper one – she can get engaged to and then marry, and even then there is no guarantee she will like what happens in the bedroom… Or even her suitor himself.</p><p>Her own dancing does not – will not – happen the way Jonathan likes it, playful and fast with the promise of holding each other close, like a two-step or what the French call valse-musette<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote2sym" id="sdfootnote2anc" name="sdfootnote2anc"><sup>2</sup></a>. It’s more like one of those ballroom strolls from a couple of centuries ago, where couples barely touch the tips of one another’s fingers. Jonathan hopes the dance partner she ends up with will at least make an effort to find out which steps she prefers and the rhythm she wants to dance to.</p><p>“…never danced before?”</p><p>“Well, yeah, just not. You know. Properly. Not like you and Jon must have.”</p><p>Jonathan’s mind, still working on his metaphor, comes to a grinding halt.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, the pitch of his voice climbing up several notches. “Lizzie and I must have <em>what?</em>”</p><p>Elizabeth throws him a curious look; Tommy laughs.</p><p>“Not that kind of dance, mate. We’re talkin’ ballrooms. And the fact that I can’t waltz to save me life.”</p><p>Sometimes Jonathan tends to forget he and Tommy didn’t have the same childhood at all. Dance lessons are just one of the things he was practically coerced into as a boy, like piano lessons (which he has no talent for) or learning how to handle a rifle (which he took to with a lot more skill and, consequently, enthusiasm). It’s been as much a chore for him as it is now for Evy, and his only consolation is that he can now steer a girl across a floor without damaging her shoes.</p><p>But late in Trinity term there will be balls and occasions where a young gentleman is at least expected, if not required, to dance. Like the more metaphorical sort, it can be quite pleasant, with the right partner; indeed, Jonathan is looking forward to inviting Elizabeth to a spin or two. But that won’t be fun at all if Tommy has to remain in the dugout.</p><p>Jonathan squints at him.</p><p>“You’ve never, ever waltzed?”</p><p>Tommy gives him the flat look the question deserves.</p><p>“Well, that won’t do at all, old chap. We’ll just have to teach you.” Jonathan stands up, straightens his jacket and waistcoat, shoots his cuffs, and extends a hand to Elizabeth. “Miss McAllister, would you grant me the favour of a dance?”</p><p>Elizabeth stares up at him, nonplussed.</p><p>“I beg your pardon?”</p><p>“A waltz. Just for a demonstration. Don’t worry, I won’t take it personally if you step on my toes.”</p><p>Elizabeth’s mouth drops open. Her baffled expression turns peevish.</p><p>“I happen to be a fairly decent dancer, actually,” she says, sounding nettled. Jonathan doesn’t skip a beat.</p><p>“Then I hope you won’t take it personally if I step on yours. But I’ll do my best not to. Please?” he adds, hand still outstretched. “This is for a good cause.”</p><p>Elizabeth stares at him pointedly, but allows him to help her to her feet.</p><p>“This is… This is very improper,” she mutters, throwing uneasy glances around them. “Besides, there’s no music to dance to at all.”</p><p>“Come on, it’s just a waltz. Who needs music when one can count?”</p><p>And Jonathan takes Elizabeth’s hand, slips a hand around her waist, and when she’s ready he starts counting.</p><p>“One… Two… Three… One… Two… <em>Look</em> at my <em>feet</em>, see <em>what</em> they <em>do</em>?”</p><p>The rhythm is almost mechanical, deliberately slow so Tommy can follow and remember the movements later. It’s not the greatest waltz he’s ever danced, but it doesn’t matter.</p><p>Elizabeth was stiff in his arms for the first steps, but she’s starting to mellow a little bit. It would be better with music, but in the present circumstances it’s not a bad experience. She really is a decent dancer.</p><p>After one or two revolutions around the picnic blanket, they stop, and Jonathan looks at Tommy expectantly.</p><p>“Your turn now. C’mon.”</p><p>Tommy looks dubious.</p><p>“So which one of you is lookin’ forward to havin’ their feet stomped on?” he sighs.</p><p>To Jonathan’s surprise, Elizabeth takes a step towards Tommy and declares, “My cue, I believe. And you won’t step on my toes. When we women learn to dance we learn to anticipate our partner’s movements.”</p><p>Tommy stands up and walks up to her, still hesitant; Elizabeth lays her left hand on his shoulder, takes his left hand in her right, and eyes him critically.</p><p>“Your posture needs a little more starch,” she says. “Throw back your shoulders a little and straighten your spine. No slouching. Imagine you’re wearing a corset.”</p><p>“Or a book on your head, if the mental image is too much for you,” chimes in Jonathan from where he’s sitting on the blanket. Tommy relaxes just enough to glare at him over Elizabeth’s shoulder.</p><p>Meanwhile, Elizabeth is still making little adjustments here and there, correcting Tommy’s posture and hand positions with gentle touches, going slightly pink every time.</p><p>“Your right hand goes on my back, now – just a little higher, if you please. Yes, just like this. Now follow my lead just for a moment. One, two, three. One, two…”</p><p>And off they go, very slowly, Tommy’s eyes riveted on his and Elizabeth’s feet. He looks ungainly, movements awkward and stiff, but after three or four minutes he has relaxed just enough that Elizabeth brings the dance to a close and smiles.</p><p>“That was very good for a first time, Tom. Now it’s your turn to lead. Try not to look down this time. One, two, three. One, two, three. One…”</p><p>The rhythm is slow, the movements clumsy, but so far Tommy hasn’t stepped once on Elizabeth’s shoes – a fact that demonstrates just how good a dancer she is. She really does anticipates Tommy’s movements as she lets herself be led with just as much grace as though she was doing the leading. She’s still counting, <em>one-two-three one-two-three one-two-three</em>, but with less emphasis than before. Tommy looks marginally less awkward than he did at the start, and even smiles a little bit. This smile makes Jonathan relax, in turn, and he stops dreading the moment when Tommy’s foot will catch on the hem of Elizabeth’s dress and rip the fabric.</p><p>Elizabeth’s voice fades, and they keep dancing for a little while; Tommy’s eyes keep darting down to his feet and his movements are still gauche, but he looks less wary than when he was watching Jonathan and Elizabeth. He actually might let himself enjoy it, Jonathan realises. For some reason, his mind provides him with the memory of their first kiss, that moment of fleeting terror on Jonathan’s part – <em>what if he doesn’t actually want this, what if he shoves me away, what if he goes straight for the police</em> – which melted into startled bliss because Tommy really did want this after all, very much so. It segues abruptly to the image of Tommy naked on his bed later that same night, looking a little nervous, but eager, and so incredibly appealing Jonathan hadn’t even known where to put his hands first.</p><p>Jonathan chalks up that early nervousness to the novelty factor and the fact that Tommy, while not exactly inexperienced, had yet to discover a number of ways to dance at the time. It faded away quickly enough; if they both still tend to trip over their own trousers and pants nowadays it’s more due to excitement and eagerness. When everything has been stripped off and chucked away, Tommy’s movements can be a lot of different things – slow and powerful and fast and passionate – but clumsy isn’t one of them. Jonathan is looking forward to seeing him waltz in a correct setting with a little more practice.</p><p>Speaking of which –</p><p>Tommy and Elizabeth slow down and stop, he a little sheepish, she with an encouraging smile.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says. “That was a little rubbish, yeah?”</p><p>Elizabeth shakes her head. “No, you’re showing a lot of promise. It <em>was</em> very good for a first time. No-one is born knowing how to dance; everyone has to learn at some point. Besides, practice makes perfect.”</p><p>“Hear hear,” says Jonathan, unfolding from his sitting position and buttoning his jacket. “And I would like to point out that I haven’t had my turn yet.”</p><p>Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up.</p><p>“You want to dance with <em>me</em>?”</p><p>“Why not? Lizzie got to dance with me <em>and</em> you. And nobody’s around to gawk.”</p><p>To his surprise, Elizabeth bares her slightly overlarge front teeth in a grin.</p><p>“You’re right, I did. It would be only fair. You’ll have to follow, though, Mr Carnahan, if it’s all right with you. Mr Ferguson needs to learn the leading part.”</p><p>“As long as you provide the musical accompaniment, Lizzie, it is. Tommy will also need to learn to dance without counting at some point.”</p><p>Elizabeth’s smile falls abruptly.</p><p>“Oh, no,” she stammers. “No, that’s – you don’t want to hear me sing. Really you don’t.”</p><p>“Come on, it’s just us three. Just pick a nice song in three-quarter time.” And, because she still looks like a cornered rabbit, Jonathan adds more gently, “No-one will laugh, I promise.”</p><p>“So do I,” says Tommy. “You didn’t laugh at me dreadful dancing, did you? I don’t know how you sound, but it can’t be as bad as I looked.”</p><p>Elizabeth shoots them both pleading looks in turn before sighing.</p><p>“Very well. But you will have brought this on yourselves.” She steps up to them, corrects their positions – Jonathan’s left hand goes on Tommy’s right shoulder, Tommy’s right hand rests on his back, just where the waistcoat is tucked into the trousers – and goes to sit on the blanket, her closed parasol on her lap.</p><p>And sings.</p><p><em>The ballroom was filled with fashion’s throng,<br/>
</em> <em>It shone with a thousand lights,<br/>
</em> <em>And there was a woman who passed along,<br/>
</em> <em>The fairest of all the sights…</em></p><p>She was understating her talent as a dancer, but she wasn’t understating her talent as a singer. Her voice is wobbly, breathless with nerves; it’s too low for the soprano the melody requires and so flat she’s off-key most of the time. Still, the rhythm is mainly there, allowing Jonathan and Tommy to glide along.</p><p>Well. Perhaps a more talented pair would glide. Jonathan and Tommy bumble along, mostly. Jonathan can tell they move much too stiffly, that the arc of his left arm feels too wide and his elbow is too high, that Tommy is concentrating so hard on not stepping on his feet he’s barely following the beat.</p><p>“Stop tryin’ to lead,” Tommy mutters. “How am I supposed to learn how to lead if you won’t follow in the first place?”</p><p>“Sorry,” says Jonathan between his teeth, “I can’t help it. It’s how I learned. I’ve never waltzed with a man before.”</p><p>The unexpectedly goofy grin Tommy gives him makes his back and shoulders relax just a little bit.</p><p>“Me neither. But then I’d never waltzed with a woman before, either, and that didn’t turned out to be a disaster.”</p><p>“Because <em>this</em> is?” exclaims Jonathan, dismayed. Does every other idea he has <em>have</em> to be catastrophic?</p><p>Fortunately, Tommy shakes his head with a smile.</p><p>“No, Jon, it’s not. It’s just a little—”</p><p>“<em>Ouch!</em>” Jonathan yelps, breaking the rhythm to hop on his left foot for a bit. Tommy winces.</p><p>“Sorry. It’s a little hard to figure out, that’s all.”</p><p>They make it through the rest of the ballad without further incidents. Waltzing with Tommy isn’t as fun and natural as dancing with him in other ways, but Jonathan reckons that once Tommy masters the necessary footwork and confidence – the two most important aspects of dancing, really – it will be much more entertaining. After all, moving to music inches from each other, Tommy’s hand warm on Jonathan’s back and his face and lips almost within kissing range but not quite, is enjoyable in itself.</p><p>The song ends with the sad death of the titular ‘bird in a gilded cage’ who married for wealth rather than for love and the first drops of a cold rain nobody saw coming. Dark grey clouds have been amassing while they danced, and now they’re bursting as though to remind them that they are still in March, barely a few days into spring. Elizabeth helps them pack the rest of the picnic and the blanket back into the basket as quick as they can without even trying to shelter herself under her parasol, which is made of lace and quite useless against the rain. And because they’re gentlemen – or fancy themselves to be, sometimes – they escort her back to Somerville, because trying to find a cab would take longer than briskly walking the quarter mile along the South Walk and Keble Road.</p><p>“See you next week, then?” Tommy tells Elizabeth when they’re a few yards from the college entrance. He takes her hand and bows his head over it with a smile, a perfect baisemain, which makes Elizabeth smile and regain some of the colour the cold has drained from her face.</p><p>“With pleasure. Shall we say next Thursday, four o’clock? We might have tea at the Cup and Chaucer again. They don’t care much for dancing there, especially between two men,” she adds with a softer smile, “but at least we’ll be out of the wet and cold if this weather keeps being unpredictable.”</p><p>“I’ll see to it that he practises,” Jonathan says with as much authority as he can muster when his clothes are soaked in icy water. God, but he hates the cold. “That way when Commemoration Week starts you’ll be the envy of all with a fellow like that on your arm.”</p><p>Tommy rolls his eyes, but Elizabeth looks pleased at the prospect. Which is jolly good, because Jonathan wasn’t joking.</p><p>When he and Tommy finally make it to his room, roughly fifteen minutes later, Jonathan is drenched and chilled to the bone. The first thing he does is lock the door, out of habit; the second is put coal into the stove and set it alight.</p><p>The third thing he does is kiss Tommy, whose lips and nose are just as icy as his own, but whose mouth is so warm it makes Jonathan’s lips tingle, like a mild burn.</p><p>His topcoat is dripping, water sloshes off his hat when he throws it on the coat stand, and his fingers are numb and stiff with cold when he tries to unbutton his jacket.</p><p>Jonathan lets out a wordless whine of frustration.</p><p>“I bloody <em>hate</em> the cold,” he mutters, to Tommy’s amusement.</p><p>“Yeah, I remember you said something like that. Hold on.”</p><p>For once, it’s Tommy who undoes every button – jackets, waistcoats, even trousers – faster and more efficiently than Jonathan, who currently feels like a human icicle. This winter wasn’t milder than any other recent ones; there were plenty of occasions to be cold. But somehow the walk in the rain froze him through and through more effectively than a four days stay in an unheated cellar in February. It’s ridiculous, really.</p><p>Once Jonathan is standing in his shirt and drawers, teeth chattering and fingers stinging like he’s just run them through a naked flame, Tommy takes his own shirt off, kisses him, and leads him to the bed. He climbs in after Jonathan, who has pulled his shirt over his head without bothering with the remaining buttons, and sucks in through his teeth when his hands graze Jonathan’s forearms.</p><p>“You feel like a block of ice,” he says, and yelps when Jonathan inches closer and wraps his arms and his body around his.</p><p>“Sorry,” mumbles Jonathan. “’M cold.”</p><p>Tommy snorts. “I gathered that.” He doesn’t move, though, and Jonathan remains exactly where he is, tangled up around him like vine around a tree, until his skin stops tingling because it got from cold to warm a little fast and starts tingling for more usual reasons, namely Tommy’s close proximity.</p><p>“I know I was awful at it,” murmurs Tommy at some point in Jonathan’s hair, “but I actually liked dancing with you. Wish it was allowed.”</p><p>Jonathan makes a non-committal sound. “You weren’t so bad. Just need practice, that’s all.”</p><p>“And you’re really goin’ to keep teachin’ me?”</p><p>“I promised Lizzie, didn’t I?” Jonathan’s shivering is dying down, finally. He raises his head to grin at Tommy. “Trinity term is full of fun occasions. We’ll go to parties, balls, or concerts, and we’ll have a great time.”</p><p>“As much as our timetables allow,” says Tommy, and Jonathan hopes his boss at the Turf Tavern will let him rearrange his hours. “And we’ll take Liz, as well. We are her only official suitors, after all. Wouldn’t do to have too much fun without her. I mean—”</p><p>It’s hard to tell under the covers, with the dimmed light, but Tommy seems to go a little pink. Jonathan mentally reviews the last sentence and his grin widens.</p><p>“Oh, I can think of <em>some</em> fun we could have without her.”</p><p>Tommy groans, “God, you’re ridiculous” and kisses him. Properly, thoroughly – the sort of kiss that usually bodes very, very well for the immediate future. His hands come up to cup Jonathan’s face, so warm against his still cool skin it feels like being kissed by fire.</p><p>Half of Jonathan still feels icy, but the other half feels like it’s burning, and if he’s shivering again it’s entirely for the right reasons. His palms travel down Tommy’s ribs to his sides, to his hips, to the cotton of his drawers. His hands are still somewhat chilly but at least his fingers are his own again, deft and limber as they work the buttons.</p><p>When he finally slides his hands between fabric and skin, Tommy’s eyes shoot open and he gives a start.</p><p>“Bloody hell!” he exclaims, breaking the kiss. “Your hands are <em>cold</em>.”</p><p>Jonathan stills, unsure whether to continue exploring or not.</p><p>“Sorry about that. Should I warm them up a bit?”</p><p>“Nah, it’s all right. It en’t so bad. I’m just more used to you ‘aving warm hands, that’s all,” Tommy adds with a grin. Jonathan smirks.</p><p>“Oh, well, in that case…”</p><p>He makes quick work of his own drawers and socks and squirms a little under the covers to toss them off the bed. Tommy does the same and almost kicks the sheets and blanket off of them in the process. When the awkward part is over, Jonathan climbs on top of Tommy, relishing every tiny square inch of hot skin. His crotch, his stomach, his chest are flush against Tommy’s; when he shuffles up a tiny bit so their lips can meet properly Tommy goes bright red and moans with his mouth closed.</p><p>“We’re alone,” Jonathan points out, because it feels so good to say it out loud. “Everybody’s gone, we can be as loud as we want. With this in mind, is there anything in particular you want to do?”</p><p>For a second he thinks Tommy is going to joke that a cup of tea would be nice, or that they could get a head on future classes. Instead, Tommy’s arms slide around his torso until one hand rests on his shoulder blade and the other around his ribs, and he murmurs, “I want to dance with you.”</p><p>This sends a pang through Jonathan from the pit of his stomach all the way to his chest, something blunt and warm and complicated that makes him want to kiss Tommy until they’re both gasping for air.</p><p>“I like the sound of that,” he wheezes, and does kiss him, a little breathlessly.</p><p>One of Tommy’s hands moves down his spine, slowly, until it goes slightly up then down again. Jonathan grins against his mouth.</p><p>“Want to keep leading, I take it.”</p><p>“Practice makes perfect,” says Tommy with a cheeky smile.</p><p>“And <em>I’m</em> ridiculous. Don’t move.” Jonathan kisses him and rolls off to open the drawer of the bedside table. Then he climbs back on top of Tommy, who gives him a surprised look.</p><p>“I thought we might try something, well – not exactly <em>new</em>, but –” He stops, thinks for a bit, and stares down at Tommy sprawled underneath him, his broad shoulders, the trail of delicate hairs creeping from his navel to his torso, his chest rising and falling just as quickly as his is. “Well,” he finishes with a grin, “I like the view from here.”</p><p>“God only knows why. Not that I’m complainin’.” Tommy takes the jar Jonathan hands him <em>and</em> a kiss. “All right, come ‘ead.”</p><p>As usual, Tommy is careful and slow, gauging Jonathan’s reactions, stopping every time he sees him hold his breath. He’s getting quite good at this, really, Jonathan realises as a long, deep movement of Tommy’s fingers strikes a chord within him that draws an outright gasp, and not from pain at all.</p><p>The more relaxed Tommy makes him feel, the more the tension grows elsewhere. It might be worth pondering if his mind wasn’t so completely on Tommy, his hands, his eyes as Jonathan aligns himself and shifts his hips back ever so slightly. Their bodies finally connect, and this time they both gasp together.</p><p>They have only done this a handful of times, and the last was over three months ago. It’s not nearly long enough that Jonathan has forgotten the sensations, how Tommy feels like inside him, but the magnitude of it still takes him a little by surprise. Tommy is utterly still, waiting for him to adjust, his hands on Jonathan’s hips; his face is all incredulous joy, just like the other times, just like the couple of times they switched, lit up from the inside as though something is shining a light from within.</p><p>The view <em>is</em> rather spectacular.</p><p>Jonathan sinks a little lower and makes a noise he would mock mercilessly in other circumstances. The heat of Tommy in him and underneath him has driven away all vestiges of the cold that numbed him so completely, what now feels like ages ago; it seems he went directly from damp and half frozen to burning up and drenched in sweat. His heart hammers against his ribcage like it’s banging on prison bars to get out, the muscles in his thighs are quivering, and his forearms and shoulders tremble so much he’s starting to think leaning on his arms was a bad idea. So when Tommy feels mostly in, Jonathan fully draws himself up and lets gravity take him the rest of the way down with a shout that’s pleasure, pain, and relief all at the same time. The covers fall off his shoulders and behind him, wafting cool air on his skin, which barely registers at all.</p><p>When he opens eyes he doesn’t remember closing, Tommy is staring up at him, mouth open, face crimson.</p><p>“Jesus <em>Christ</em>, Jon,” he says almost reverently, like what he’s seeing isn’t the scrawny idiot he’s currently fully sheathed into. Much as Jonathan likes to entertain the thought that he’s not bad-looking, he’s also quite – sometimes painfully – aware of how much his ribs stick out and the fact that he doesn’t have much in the way of shoulders. Tommy, in contrast, has some meat on his arms and just the hint of a paunch. He must have quite some muscle under that paunch, too, because he pushes himself off the mattress and sits up in one fluid movement. After a bit of shuffling and adjusting, they’re sitting in the middle of the bed like they were the first time they made love, gripping each other fiercely, eyes locked on each other.</p><p>“So – so much for the view,” Jonathan utters, voice strangled. He’s not complaining, not really. In fact, he’s pretty sure he’s physically unable to right now. His body is on fire, his mind not far behind, his entire soul is howling for Tommy.</p><p>Tommy, right here in his arms, snug against his chest, filling him and wrapped around him and oh God, Jonathan loves him so bloody much he completely forgets to be embarrassed or anxious about it.</p><p>Tommy who draws himself up, breathing in sharply through his nose as he kisses him, and who whispers on the exhale, “Mine was better anyway.”</p><p>His hips move, and thrust, and Jonathan loses his mind.</p><p>He barely stays conscious enough to keep grasping Tommy’s body to him and feel him – among a chaos of other sensations – grip his torso so hard he won’t be surprised if it leaves bruises in the shapes of handprints. His own fingers dig into Tommy’s back, clutching, raking the skin; one of his hands goes up Tommy’s spine and up the back of his head to grip his thick blond hair, wet with perspiration and a remnant of rain. Their afternoon in the Parks and the earlier downpour left a trace on Tommy, a hint of the faint sharp scent of spring that’s been clinging to him for the past couple of weeks.</p><p>The smells, the sounds, the taste of Tommy’s lips and mouth – everything crashes together with the tumult of sensations which Jonathan is feeling with his hands, his skin, his entire body. Outside, his prick is rubbing against his belly and Tommy’s both; inside, every movement Tommy makes is sending lightning coursing through him. Beads of sweat roll down his temples, his back, the centre of his chest and stomach, pooling in his navel. How much is his and how much is Tommy’s, he has no idea, no way to tell, and doesn’t care enough to try.</p><p>Tommy’s head is tucked between Jonathan’s head and his shoulder, just at the right spot so it doesn’t knock into Jonathan’s jaw on upthrusts. Through the blood roaring in his ears Jonathan can hear him moan loudly, half nonsense and half Jonathan’s name, over and over. What is leaving his own throat right now besides incoherent shouting and whimpering, he’s not even sure.</p><p>But it’s all right. They’re alone. They are two twin cockleshells adrift in a storm, tossed and thrashed about by the sea, clinging to each other like they’re each other’s buoy – which they might as well be – but they’re safe, even if they sink. Behind the waves of ecstasy crashing into him with every movement Jonathan can feel another coming from afar, slowly, inexorably, gaining momentum with every heartbeat.</p><p>When it does hit him, it’s a tidal wave that smashes him to pieces just as it lifts him up to such heights he might as well be staring right into the sun. His breath rushes out of his lungs in one long ragged cry and he collapses on Tommy, still gripping him, as though it’s the only thing that will keep him from going under. Tommy’s firm hold on him doesn’t shift nor slacken as he keeps pushing inside Jonathan for a few seconds more, almost frantically, before an inarticulate shout bursts out of him and his whole body spasms, stills, and slumps against Jonathan’s.</p><p>In the hush that falls around them, still ringing from their cries and the sounds of harsh panting and flesh smacking on flesh, Jonathan slowly drifts down and tries to piece his mind together. When he opens his eyes, the first thing that registers is the freckles on Tommy’s shoulder, rising and falling to the rhythm of his erratic breathing. Some sensations follow, like cool air on his sweat-slicked skin, Tommy’s warm palms, one on his buttocks and the other in the small of his back, both shaking, or the salt of their sweat he tasted from Tommy’s lips.</p><p>Jonathan lifts his head from where it fell against Tommy’s to lay his forehead against his, and tries for a smile. The result is lightning-quick and shaky, but Tommy, after blinking a little, returns it.</p><p>They are both shattered, wrecked, holding on to reality by the thinnest of threads.</p><p>After a long while spent just holding each other, breathing in and out of each other’s mouth and waiting for their hearts to calm down, Jonathan steals a glance at the window and notices it’s completely dark outside.</p><p>“I think we missed dinner,” he rasps between two trembling breaths.</p><p>Tommy gulps in some air and kisses him. “I think I don’t care.” He lowers the both of them to the mattress carefully, and only when they’re both lying down does he gingerly pull out of Jonathan. For some reason this bit never fails to make Jonathan feel a little lost and dangerously close to mawkish territory; to make up for it he lays his head in the hollow of Tommy’s shoulder, pulls the covers over them both, and lets his palm rest and run on Tommy’s hipbone.</p><p>Reality will come back soon in the form of small aches, a mess to clean up and sheets to change, but for the moment Jonathan is warm, comfortable, and Tommy’s hand is moving up and down his arm in long, tender caresses. To hell with reality, anyway. In moments like these the rest of the world can go hang. Right now it’s just him and Tommy on a desert island, exhausted and half-delirious but alive. Their bodies are liquid and heavy as stone, and their minds are still running to catch up, making it difficult to notice things other than the way the wet hair on Tommy’s chest tickles his cheek, the feel of him in Jonathan’s arms, the phantom feel of him in Jonathan, full stop, the—</p><p>Oh. <em>Ow</em>.</p><p>…This is new.</p><p>Jonathan knows – from first-hand experience, now – that this sort of lovemaking requires careful preparation and a liberal dose of lubricant. It’s why they only indulge in it if they know they can take their time (<em>and</em> be as loud as they like). Now he knows that it also requires, well, a careful sort of lovemaking. Areas that were half-heartedly prickling after the previous times are now throbbing painfully.</p><p>He must have stiffened, because Tommy pushes his wet fringe out of his eyes to look at him curiously.</p><p>“Everythin’ all right?”</p><p>“Um,” says Jonathan, mortified. “Remember I joked about walking funny the first time we, ah, did that?”</p><p>Tommy nods. Jonathan squirms a little. This sends sharp little twinges into places he’s usually very happy to ignore, and he winces.</p><p>“Well, er… I am definitely not going to the pub with you tonight.”</p><p>Tommy swiftly sits up on his elbows and peers at him, alarm quickly replacing curiosity on his face.</p><p>“Jesus, Jon,” he exclaims, “are you all right?”</p><p>Jonathan’s face heats up. Unlike earlier, it’s not especially pleasant.</p><p>“I’m not going to die or anything,” he points out – <em>except perhaps from embarrassment</em>, his mind chimes in cheerfully. “I’m just sore.”</p><p>“Let me see.”</p><p>“You are <em>not</em> taking a peek at my arse.”</p><p>“In ainm Chríost<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote3sym" id="sdfootnote3anc" name="sdfootnote3anc"><sup>3</sup></a>, I was <em>inside</em> your arse just a moment ago, you idiot. You pick the weirdest times to get bashful.”</p><p>Tommy only ever swears in Irish when he’s deadly serious. Jonathan reluctantly shuffles off of him, settles himself down on his stomach, and shoves the pillow over his head. This is as good a time as any to bury his head in the metaphorical sand.</p><p>After Tommy is done with his little inspection, he pulls the covers over them again and nudges Jonathan.</p><p>“Well,” says his voice through pillow and pillowcase, “at least there’s no blood.”</p><p>“Joy.”</p><p>Tommy doesn’t retort anything, so Jonathan lifts one corner of the pillow to glance up at him. Tommy is sitting cross-legged with the covers up to his waist, shoulders hunched, uncertain. His blond hair falls into his eyes, still wet and tousled, giving him a slightly hangdog look.</p><p>Jonathan sighs.</p><p>“Don’t get cocky and think it’s your fault somehow,” he says, lifting the pillow off his head and tucking it under his chin. “I just got carried away. We’ll be more careful next time, that’s all.” And, as a fleeting thought occurs to him, “Tommy? Could you turn away?”</p><p>Tommy blinks at him, nonplussed.</p><p>“What d’you mean?”</p><p>“Just… show me your back, please. Humour me.”</p><p>Tommy shrugs, and humours him. Jonathan lets out a long deep breath.</p><p>“What?” asks Tommy, vague concern in his voice. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Let me put it this way, old chap. It’s a good thing our next rowing practice is two or three weeks from now and not tomorrow.”</p><p>Tommy gives him an odd look, gets up, and strides over to the mirror above the washbasin. When he catches sight of his back and spots the long red marks Jonathan’s fingernails left on his skin, he lets out a small startled gasp. Jonathan winces.</p><p>“For the record, I am sorry about that.”</p><p>“Don’t be,” says Tommy when he comes back and sits on the bed. “It just means I made someone very happy. Doesn’t specify who.” He leans in to set a kiss in the middle of Jonathan’s back and nudges him again. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up and go get dinner. En’t you hungry?”</p><p>“Famished,” Jonathan says, heart sinking in his – indeed, rather empty come to think of it – stomach. “But I was serious about not setting foot outside tonight.”</p><p>Tommy’s face falls.</p><p>“Does it really hurt that much?”</p><p>“I might be able to sit without squirming too much for five minutes, but we did miss informal hall, and I’m not walking all the way to the pub and back looking like a conviction for buggery about to happen.”</p><p>Tommy looks thoughtful. Then grins.</p><p>“How about I go get us steak pies from that fish-and-chip shop on Pembroke Street?”</p><p>Jonathan knows this particular fish-and-chip shop. That he knows a fish-and-chip shop at all would probably horrify his unknown Carnahan relatives and make his father raise an eyebrow at the very least – <em>and</em> John Carnahan is no stranger to the idea of dinner being a quick bite whilst he works. Gentlemen do not grab steak pies in fish-and-chip shops. This sort of thing is for the lower classes only, for people who work from sunrise to sunset and do not have the time to prepare long dinners or cooks to do it for them.</p><p>Those steak pies are very convenient when they want to spend the evening at the pub and not have to sit with everyone at dinner, though, so Jonathan is familiar with the concept. But having them here is unheard of.</p><p>Jonathan thinks for a bit and says with a smile, “Not a bad idea.” They had a picnic for lunch, they can continue in the same vein for dinner.</p><p>As usual, cleaning up after this sort of activity requires more than the cursory application of a wet cloth. It takes some time before Jonathan and Tommy are decent again, Tommy having donned enough clothes to be fit to be seen by other people while Jonathan only threw on his drawers, shirt and trousers without bothering with a waistcoat or even socks. They throw the stained bedsheets in the hamper – the people charged with doing the washing for the young gentlemen of Oxford know better than asking awkward questions – and fit a clean sheet on the mattress. And then Tommy goes out in his still wet coat and hat with a few extra notes in his wallet.</p><p>Jonathan flops down on his bed – face down, naturally – and resists the urge to put the pillow over his head again.</p><p>He didn’t feel particularly ashamed the first time. Or the other times. Or the times they switched. Honestly, despite the number of questionable things he has done in his almost nineteen years of existence, shame is not a sentiment Jonathan Carnahan is well acquainted with. He has been self-conscious on occasion, but that’s it. So why a little bit of pain is currently making him want to take up residence under his bed and never come out again is beyond him.</p><p>And then he becomes aware of the cold little voice whispering in the back of his brain that he <em>knows</em> why he’s ashamed, and rightfully so, because they have <em>names</em> for what he is.</p><p>Jonathan’s eyes pop open.</p><p>He’s been called a lot of names, many to his face, a few that actually hurt. By-blow. Half-breed. Freak. That he’s never been called a poof is a testament to how good a liar he is. But it’s one thing to be called a name; it’s another thing entirely to believe one deserves it, plus all the nasty implicit baggage.</p><p>Jonathan puts his chin on his folded arms and tries to look at things coolly, logically, the way Evy might.</p><p>Item one: while the term ‘invert’ doesn’t really apply to him, he <em>is</em> bent as a nine-bob note in both meanings of the phrase. That’s just one of the many things that make him who he is, like the fact that he has blue eyes or that his hair curls when it gets wet. Only people don’t get put into prison for not pretending their hair doesn’t get curly.</p><p>Item two: only little details like walking funny or flinching if he sits down too long currently telegraph this aspect of him, but he is most definitely a bugger – and not just the kind that comes after adjectives like ‘silly’ or ‘sneaky’ – and has been for months now.</p><p>Item three: two men kissing and pleasuring each other and doing unspeakable things to each other is not just unlawful, but also dirty and wrong. In light of his behaviour and general character, it follows that he, Jonathan, also is unlawful, dirty and wrong – something which he usually finds easy to shrug off, but which the pain in unmentionable parts of his anatomy is a stark reminder of right now.</p><p>Footnote: he enjoys making love with Tommy, all the different ways of it. A <em>lot</em>.</p><p>Item four is Jonathan not just mentally crossing out item three but also cross-hatching it furiously once it dawns on him that if it applies to him, it also applies to Tommy, and the thought of someone calling Tommy dirty and wrong is making him angry like he hardly ever gets.</p><p>Item five: what he and Tommy do together since that night after the Oxford Arms – what they’ve been doing even before Jonathan realised he was in love with him, when he still thought he was just fooling around with his best friend – feels neither dirty nor wrong. It can be messy, yes, and as tonight shows, a little bit painful, but how could anyone see the way Tommy’s smile beams when Jonathan’s caresses go from outside to inside and call it dirty? How could anyone hear him laugh as Jonathan’s fingers hit a particularly ticklish spot and say it’s unlawful? And how can the tidal wave of pleasure that lifts them up, shatters them, then puts them back together with little pieces of each other’s soul be wrong?</p><p><em>In conclusion</em>, says a second internal voice, drowning the cold, ugly one that still makes Jonathan want to melt into the floor, <em>what you and Tommy are doing </em>is<em> illegal, but it’s neither dirty nor wrong. Neither is Tommy, and consequently neither are you.</em></p><p>The new voice sounds a lot like Evy’s, patient and sensible, if a little bit bossy – even though Jonathan would die before breathing a word of this to his sister, even when she’s a hundred years old and he’s a hundred and five. It doesn’t entirely convince him, but the logic is sound, at least.</p><p>Later, when he and Tommy are eating their steak pies, careful not leave crumbs or let gravy drip, Jonathan’s eyes fall on the empty picnic basket and his thoughts stray to the ‘personal question’ Elizabeth asked them after lunch.</p><p>Women aren’t supposed to feel carnal pleasure. There is no real consensus on the subject: some learned scholars say they physically cannot, some others say they should not because it causes all sorts of illnesses and disorders, and some others say they do because they are base and promiscuous creatures who should strive to let themselves be governed by intellect instead of instincts.</p><p>Honestly, it’s a mess. And a wonder Elizabeth plucked up the courage to ask at all. If she happens to have the same kinds of dreams Jonathan has sometimes, the sort of dream that gets so intense the after-effects take time to fade away even after he’s fully awake, then there’s a good chance it must make her feel dirty and wrong, as well. Even if Jonathan reckons she shouldn’t. Besides, her question <em>was</em> legitimate, if jolly awkward to answer.</p><p>Deep down, Jonathan can’t help but hope she eventually finds out exactly what it is about kissing and other such intimate activities that make one be ‘loud’.</p>
<hr/><p> </p>
<p></p><div>
  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote1anc" id="sdfootnote1sym" name="sdfootnote1sym">1</a>Like the Oxford Arms, entirely fictional to the best of my knowledge.</p>
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  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote2anc" id="sdfootnote2sym" name="sdfootnote2sym">2</a>A type of fast waltz, danced very close together, that got popular in Parisian ‘bals-musettes’ (popular balls with accordion music) in the late 1880s.</p>
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  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote3anc" id="sdfootnote3sym" name="sdfootnote3sym">3</a>“in the name of Christ”, “for Christ’s sake” (only, from what I’ve gathered, closer to “for fuck’s sake” in terms of rudeness).</p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It’s hard to picture right now for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, but even late March can be <i>cold</i> in Oxford. I wrote this in early/mid-March, and was vindicated when temperatures in early April dropped below 10°C (50°F) at the warmest point of the day. Brrr.</p><p>Jonathan “fistfighting his own self-doubt for Tommy’s sake”, as my wonderful beta put it, was quite unexpected and punched me in the feels when it happened 💜</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>The nature of a courtship discussed – What a letter can say – Shelter and solace – A choice to be made one day</i>
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          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fortunately for Jonathan, it doesn’t take too long before he can go to the pub with Tommy and slouch on chairs again without discomfort. Which is good, because he is gregarious by nature, and about twenty-four hours of life as a hermit is as much isolation as he can take.</p><p>The two remaining weeks of holidays seem to go by in a flash, especially the last one, the week Tommy has free from work. The Dark Blues’ defeat in the Boat Race<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote1sym" id="sdfootnote1anc" name="sdfootnote1anc"><sup>1</sup></a>, while pretext to rowdy celebrating in London by Cambridge supporters, did not encourage holidaying Oxford students to come back to the old alma mater early; Jonathan and Tommy practically have the halls to themselves. It means they are free to come back from the pub sloshed to the gills singing ‘The Good Ship Venus’ at the top of their lungs, totter back to their rooms arm in arm or hand in hand, or even steal kisses in the stairwell laughing like two idiots at getting away with it – and make all the happy noises they want when they close the door and their arms find one another.</p><p>“I do love you, you know,” mumbles Jonathan one night, right against the hot skin of Tommy’s neck, in that moment of glowing, exhausted peace that immediately follows the peak of the storm.</p><p>They are wrapped around each other, panting, Jonathan still inside Tommy, one hand slowly carding through his wet hair. The final wave of pleasure that crashed into him made way for a rush of tenderness only slightly less intense that took him by surprise. It usually does. Jonathan should probably be used to it by now.</p><p>There’s a hitch in Tommy’s uneven breathing as he gulps, and Jonathan feels him smile against his forehead.</p><p>“Same ‘ere,” he murmurs.</p><p>They don’t say it often. When Jonathan does it’s almost accidentally, when everything inside him becomes so bloody much that it threatens to overwhelm him. Not that it’s something that <em>needs</em> to be said, not really, not when it feels so bally obvious Jonathan has to take great pains to hide it from the world. Tommy doesn’t utter the actual words often, either, though he finds other ways to say it. When he does it never fails to make Jonathan’s insides feel as though he’s just walked in front of a motor bus.</p><p>As usual, they resolutely ignore the fact that one day they will graduate, and most likely have to go their separate ways. It’s quite easy to shrug it off. How can they take that deadline seriously when even the end of the school year in a couple of months feels so remote?</p><p>Jonathan has always been a <em>carpe diem</em> sort of fellow, anyway. Or, in this particular case, <em>carpe amantem</em><a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote2sym" id="sdfootnote2anc" name="sdfootnote2anc"><sup>2</sup></a>, he thinks, and does just that: holds Tommy close and resolves to keep holding him for as long as he can.</p><p>The holidays are perfect for it. Some days they stay in and relish the fact that the floor is theirs still; some days they go out and enjoy the increasingly clement weather. It’s often just the two of them, but they also regularly meet with Elizabeth, who, true to her word, doesn’t go home at all.</p><p>They even manage to drag Arthur from his books so he can act as chaperon when the three of them go see the odd play or concert. He’s a sport about this, really, and even allows Tommy to take his cousin’s arm as they all escort her back to her college one late afternoon after a play, like a queen and her suite.</p><p>In this case, the queen is desperately trying to stifle her laughter as two of her gallant knights sing “With Cat-Like Tread” at the top of their lungs with varying degrees of success. As for Arthur, he looks slightly baffled, having fallen asleep halfway through the second act of the amateur rendition of the <em>Pirates of Penzance</em> they’ve just seen.</p><p>Tommy can carry a tune quite decently when he isn’t drunk or having a laugh. Jonathan is the polar opposite of Elizabeth in that he manages to hit the right notes, more or less, but rhythm eludes him completely. But that’s all right: he’s not actually trying out for the part of the Pirate King, is he.</p><p>“<em>UPON OUR PREY WE STEAL!</em>” he almost shouts, only faltering slightly when Tommy’s voice drops a couple of notes on the last syllable to make a harmony.</p><p>A respectable-looking middle-aged woman walking out of a haberdashery a few yards ahead of them hastily crosses the street to avoid them. Tommy beams and waves at her in a manner he probably intends as innocent, which only makes her walk faster. Surprisingly, it makes Elizabeth let out a real laugh, high and clear, before she clamps her hand over her mouth as her customary propriety makes a return. Jonathan laughs as well, delighted, and since no-one has threatened to send for the police yet he continues to sing much too loud.</p><p>“<em>NO SOUND AT ALL, WE NEVER SPEAK A WORD</em> –”</p><p>“Doesn’t this rather defeat the purpose?” Arthur asks Elizabeth, blinking a little owlishly behind his glasses. “I know I missed some of the numbers towards the end, but the way they’re singing makes it sound like… like they’re not even trying to be stealthy.”</p><p>“They’re not,” says Elizabeth, who is still smiling widely. “Well, they <em>are</em>, but…” She shakes her head. “They’re just not very good at it.”</p><p>“Hang on,” Tommy says, “do you mean the pirates, or Jon and I?”</p><p>A small giggle escapes Elizabeth and she answers after a deep breath, her eyes shining with mirth, “The pirates, of course. Clearly you and Mr Carnahan are the very picture of stealth.”</p><p>This time they all chuckle, although it feels to Jonathan that he, Tommy and Elizabeth are laughing at a very different joke. The three of them, and only the three of them know just how good at stealth Tommy and Jonathan are, even if they appear as a pair of clowns with less than stellar reputations. Honestly, it’s a miracle Arthur even allowed them to ‘court’ Elizabeth at all.</p><p>Arthur nods wisely.</p><p>“Oh, irony. Simply corking. I like that in a song.”</p><p>From another person, this would probably sound sarcastic. Not so Arthur McAllister. Elizabeth throws him a fond smile.</p><p>“At least this one’s on purpose,” Jonathan points out. “There are plenty of songs with cheerful melodies and frightfully sad lyrics. Folk songs especially.”</p><p>Tommy nods. “Oh, yeah. The number of songs about death and murder and the parting of young lovers with tunes you can dance a jolly jig to! Even shanties en’t this bad.”</p><p>Elizabeth looks at him curiously.</p><p>“Shanties?”</p><p>“Sailors’ songs. Learned a few from me dad. ‘Spanish Ladies’, ‘Haul Away Joe’, ‘Maggie May’… ‘The Leavin’ of Liverpool’ is probably the worst offender, though.”</p><p>“Why?” asks Arthur. “How does it go?”</p><p>Tommy looks a little self-conscious, as if he and Jonathan weren’t butchering Gilbert and Sullivan only a moment ago, but answers with the last verse.</p><p><em>Now the sun shines on the harbour, love,<br/>
</em> <em>I wish that I could remain,<br/>
</em> <em>For I know that it may be a long, long time<br/>
</em> <em>Till I see you again…</em></p><p>Jonathan has a vague memory of singing this particular song with him one balmy early autumn night. It’s a tune he now associates with a blend of delight at making a friend and a sharp stab of sympathy, which even in his booze-induced happy haze made him feel like a bucket of cold water suddenly upturned on his head. He joins Tommy for the chorus, following his lead, just a little too fast.</p><p><em>So fare thee well, my own true love,<br/>
</em> <em>For when I return, united we will be<br/>
</em> <em>It’s not the leaving of Liverpool that grieves me,<br/>
</em> <em>But my darling when I think of thee</em></p><p>“I see what you mean,” says Elizabeth a little thoughtfully when they stop singing. “It almost sounds like the melody should be in minor, not major. It’s such a sad song – why does it sound so gay?”</p><p>Tommy shrugs.</p><p>“I dunno, really. Me dad used to say it makes up for the sadness, because that’s just how life is: sad and happy and a little bit ridiculous, all at the same time.”</p><p>“Your father sounds like a wise man,” says Arthur. Tommy gives a smile, and Jonathan wonders if the grief that dulls its usual brightness a little is as obvious to the others as it is to him.</p><p>“He was, at that.”</p><p>Neither Arthur nor Elizabeth fail to grasp the implications. Arthur’s face falls. He offers his condolences, and doesn’t even seem to notice that Elizabeth not only tightens her hold on Tommy’s arm but also lays her other hand on it for a moment. It’s a simple, fleeting gesture, but it makes Jonathan thank her in the privacy of his mind. <em>He</em> can’t do much in terms of physical comfort right now, but Elizabeth can, and he’s grateful that she overrode her strict sense of propriety in favour of providing solace to a friend.</p><p>The conversation is quickly steered towards less personal matters, such as the ending of <em>The Pirates of Penzance</em> and speculation about the characters’ subsequent fates. They leave Elizabeth at the door of her college with crisp bows and textbook baisemains which leave her smiling and slightly flustered. Arthur seems to find their dedication to being gentlemen rather amusing, too.</p><p>“You’re taking this courtship business rather seriously, I see,” he says as they walk back to Turl Street.</p><p>There is something like approval in his voice. It makes Jonathan bold enough to say, “Well, of course we are, old boy. Your cousin is a charming girl, and quite frankly it’s baffling that nobody had appeared to take notice of that before we did.”</p><p>Tommy nods enthusiastically, big brown eyes all earnestness and innocence. Arthur pushes his glasses up his long nose.</p><p>“Eliza confided,” he says a little hesitantly, “that she and you actually struck up a friendship and you only accepted to pretend to compete for her hand so she would not appear suitorless, so to speak. Is that true?”</p><p>Tommy and Jonathan look at each other.</p><p>“Well, we <em>are</em> friends,” says Tommy.</p><p>“Anybody can see that. I mean, neither of you intends to actually ask for her hand, right? And she knows this?”</p><p>“Marriage is definitely not on the table,” Jonathan is happy to say with absolute truthfulness. “I understand she was under a little bit of pressure to find someone she can call a suitor, so at some point Tommy and I suggested we apply for the job and relieve some of that pressure. As friends, like he said. Nothing untoward is going on, I assure you.”</p><p>He’s only half lying; it was actually Elizabeth’s idea. But it seems to satisfy Arthur.</p><p>“Oh, right-o. I was afraid I might have to take measures if you broke her heart. Or that you might hate each other once she made her choice. This is infinitely better.”</p><p>For all that Arthur McAllister wears thick glasses and never seems to get his nose out of his books, they both know he’s anything but dumb and sees a lot more than one might think. It sounds a lot like he’s giving them his blessing, of a sort.</p><p>Even if he has no idea what the true reason for their sham courtship is, thank goodness.</p>
<hr/><p>Easter comes and goes, and with it the end of the holidays, which means the end of golden afternoons spent making each other cry out in ecstasy. Jonathan does insist on a short waltz every now and then, five minutes here, ten minutes there. They promised Elizabeth, after all. Following still feels a little weird, but that’s a sacrifice Jonathan is willing to make if it means Tommy can let go of the last of his uneasiness and be able to dance properly come early June.</p><p>They increasingly eschew the Cup and Chaucer in favour of the Parks for their rendezvous with Elizabeth as spring sheds the last traces of winter. The sun grows warmer, the weather more reliable, and watching the odd cricket match in the distance and playing at making half-hearted bets becomes something of a habit.</p><p>And then, one afternoon in late April, as Jonathan and Tommy sit on ‘their’ bench, the hour comes and goes and does not bring Elizabeth.</p><p>Elizabeth McAllister is always punctual. How she manages that feat while never carrying a watch is something of a mystery, but there you are.</p><p>After a while, the two boys resolve to take a walk around, not far in case Elizabeth is just late, a little disappointed and vaguely worried. They’ve given their little appointments a miss once or twice, but each time either they or Elizabeth sent a telegram to make apologies and reschedule. They’ve also taken so sending each other letters sometimes, often written together even though only one name is signed, and they read Elizabeth’s together. The tone of these letters is, more often than not, playful and gently flirty, though not too personal, just in case they fall into the wrong hands.</p><p>There is no cricket match today; pitch and stands are empty, and so is the Pavilion itself when they approach it from the south, behind the trees that hide the kind of secluded spot favoured by people in search of intimacy.</p><p>Waiting for Elizabeth in there is very tempting. Since Jonathan has long been of the opinion that the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it, as the poet<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote3sym" id="sdfootnote3anc" name="sdfootnote3anc"><sup>3</sup></a> said, he shoots a grin at Tommy and ambles towards the trees. Tommy rolls his eyes, but gives a good-natured smile and follows him – and almost bumps into his back when Jonathan stops abruptly.</p><p>Elizabeth wasn’t late, after all.</p><p>There she is, hunched up like a wounded animal with her side against the blind wall of the Pavilion, sobbing so hard her whole body seems to be heaving. Her hat lies forgotten on the ground, her gloves are nowhere to be found. Clearly she has not even noticed Jonathan’s and Tommy’s presence.</p><p>Something contracts inside Jonathan’s stomach, as though a hand is reaching out inside and crumpling everything like paper. In two loping strides he’s in front of her, trying to catch her eyes, full of questions he’s not sure how to voice.</p><p>“Elizabeth?” he asks softly. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>As much as he likes to call her ‘Lizzie’, he needs her to know that making light of the situation is absolutely out of the question for him right now. Perhaps the use of her first name is what draws out Elizabeth from herself; perhaps it’s something else. In any case, she raises her head from her hands. Jonathan gets one glimpse of her face, blotchy and scrunched up and streaming with tears, before she flings her arms about his torso and clings to him like a drowning person.</p><p>Jonathan is so startled he momentarily forgets to be embarrassed. To be frank, this is one social situation he is absolutely not equipped to handle. He is vaguely aware the correct course of action might be to pat her on the head lightly, mutter “There, there” and wait for the storm to pass with as little physical contact as possible; but it doesn’t feel very fair to her. So he follows both his first impulse and the few experiences he has of comforting Evy on the rare occasion she came to him for comfort: he wraps her in his arms and holds her close.</p><p>Elizabeth is tall for a girl, and her ankle boots have heels. She usually wears her hair in a long plait that falls down her back, but has enough of it that her face is always framed by a halo of dark red curls. Jonathan isn’t tall enough to see over the top of her head, not in normal circumstances anyway. Right now, though, she looks tiny as she huddles up against him, and he meets Tommy’s eyes over the cushion of frizzy hair.</p><p>Tommy has picked up her hat and what looks like a letter from the ground, and appears just as lost for words as Jonathan feels. Slowly, hesitatingly, he steps closer; then, still in the manner usually reserved for bird watchers who want to approach a particularly skittish specimen without scaring it away, he puts his arms around Jonathan and Elizabeth both and lays his head against hers.</p><p>Goodness knows why he does that. Saying he shouldn’t would be like saying the ocean is slightly wet. Jonathan almost expects a constable to appear out of thin air and drag them all before a judge for their scandalous conduct. He’s not sure exactly which laws they’re breaking, or even whether what they are doing is actually unlawful or just unheard of – he <em>would</em> know if his mind wasn’t so scrambled right now, knowing the law is important when one likes toeing it on a regular basis – but there has to be <em>something</em>.</p><p>A three-way hug shouldn’t feel so right.</p><p>After a few seconds of internal debate, Jonathan does what he usually does: he throws propriety out the window and lets instinct take over. Which means he closes his eyes, relaxes into Tommy’s embrace, and gently caresses the back of Elizabeth’s head.</p><p>The world slows down.</p><p>Her hair tickles his nose a little. For the first time he notices Elizabeth’s scent, faint and sweet under the smell of soap and vanilla-scented hair oil. Tommy’s hand is warm on his back; the shaking of Elizabeth’s shoulders starts to die down. For all that Jonathan is probably having tears and snot dribbled into his shirt front, the sensations are, curiously, not unpleasant at all.</p><p>All storms pass eventually; this one is no exception. After a while, Elizabeth straightens up. Her breathing is more regular, less gulping, but her face still looks like a battlefield.</p><p>“I’m – I – my apologies,” she says a little brokenly through a blocked nose.</p><p>To Jonathan’s surprise, she doesn’t step away from him and Tommy, nor does she appear flustered at the blatant disregard for propriety. To be honest, she looks too shaken for that.</p><p>“What happened?” Tommy asks, very gently. Elizabeth’s gaze falls and stays down as she shakes her head.</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“Must’ve been one hell of a ‘nothing’, then,” Jonathan remarks, hoping the swearword will startle her out of the state she’s in and make her blush, or better yet, roll her eyes at him. But she hardly even reacts.</p><p>“No, really,” she murmurs, “nothing happened. Nothing anyone can do a thing about, anyway.”</p><p>There is a bitter note in her voice that doesn’t suit her at all. Much as Jonathan wants to ask what on Earth can draw that kind of reaction and still be ‘nothing’, there is a finality to her tone that tells him she’s speaking the truth, or a version of the truth.</p><p>Tommy’s hand falls. Jonathan immediately misses the warmth of it on his back. Tommy hands Elizabeth her hat, which she takes with a silent nod of thanks, and the letter, which she doesn’t.</p><p>Instead, she fishes her handkerchief from her bodice, takes a deep breath, and says, “You may read it, if you like.”</p><p>Tommy shifts a little awkwardly.</p><p>“Isn’t this… private?”</p><p>“It is,” says Elizabeth, her voice still nasal and her words still clumsy, “but I don’t really… It doesn’t matter.”</p><p>For a second Jonathan thinks Tommy is about to give her back her letter anyway, but he keeps it. As his eyes dart down the page and on the other side, his face goes through a myriad of expressions, shock the most prominent, followed by anger. When he’s done, he wordlessly hands Jonathan the letter to read.</p><p>
  <em>My dear daughter,</em>
</p><p><em>While you persist in your childish avoidance of any responsibility you deem inconvenient, I regret to inform you that your father recently</em> <em>took a turn for the worse and another sojourn in the sanatorium could no longer be avoided. His father’s passing last February was a tremendous blow, which you would know if you had been a dutiful daughter and come home to us for a few months, like I told you to. I strongly</em> <em>suspect that the black mood which led to your father’s internment might have been mitigated by your presence by his side.</em></p><p>
  <em>When will you cease playing at being a female scholar and come back home to your real duties? I already told you that if you failed to find an appropriate suitor your father and I would have no trouble finding one for you. You don’t look too bad, provided you make an effort and smile with your mouth closed. You know your sister was younger than you when Mr Fowler started wooing her. I still have reservations about the two students you say are ‘courting’ you; who are their families? Where are they from? You and your cousin Arthur were both quite elusive on the subject.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You know I only have your best interests in mind. You are a very suggestible girl in a dangerous environment, and since your father is unable to see to your welfare it falls to me to make sure you are safe, even when you make appalling choices.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Affectionately,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your mother</em>
</p><p>Jonathan skims the letter, then rereads it more slowly and compares it in his mind to letters his parents have sent him over the past few months, or during the years he spent in boarding school. The tone alone is vastly different. As for the actual content…</p><p>After a third reading he meets Tommy’s eyes again, fairly sure that his face reflected the same emotions Tommy’s showed while he read the letter: unease, dismay, anger, with an underlying sadness. In some ways Elizabeth is a lot more sheltered than they ever were, especially Tommy; she never had to face the fear of not having enough to eat, or the scorn of people assuming they were inherently Tommy’s or Jonathan’s betters for having white English parents. But at least Jonathan has always been aware that, no matter how awful or ridiculous things could get outside, coming home meant coming back to boundless, unconditional love. His parents would never use those kinds of falsely polite barbs to tear down his self-esteem, and from what Tommy told him of his mother, she would never think to put the blame for a family member’s declining health on his shoulders.</p><p>What they can <em>say</em> to her that wouldn’t clash with whatever loyalty she has for her family or make her hurt more than she already is, Jonathan has no idea.</p><p>Elizabeth has just the time to stick her used handkerchief down her bodice again when Tommy hugs her without warning – just wraps himself around her with, surprisingly, no hesitation at all.</p><p>Elizabeth blinks.</p><p>“…Oh,” she says in a small voice.</p><p>Her eyes are very round when they meet Jonathan’s over Tommy’s shoulder, the expression in them puzzled and just a little startled. Jonathan can’t blame her, really. He answers her wordless question with a shrug and a smile, and, because her right arm is hovering a little as though she’s not quite sure what to do with it, he takes her hand in his.</p><p>Elizabeth blinks, then relaxes, and her fingers tighten around Jonathan’s.</p><p>Later, when they’re sitting on ‘their’ bench and she explains a few things in a slow, halting voice, Jonathan realises this is the first time he has seen her not wearing gloves, let alone touched her hand. For some reason this makes something skim across his palm for a second, like a whisper of static electricity.</p><p>“The day we met,” Elizabeth says, her voice low, “I had received a letter much like this one, and I came to that spot to hide and, well – have a cry in private, I suppose.”</p><p>“Because you’d just learned that your grandfather had died?” asks Jonathan, who remembers the way her fingers had gripped the letter almost to the point of crunching it.</p><p>Elizabeth takes a short, sharp breath. Her shoulders and back are taut and she keeps her arms very close to her torso, as though it’s fifty degrees instead of seventy.</p><p>“Because my mother thought it best to only inform me of my grandfather’s passing two days after his funeral. She also demanded I drop my… my studies and come home immediately.”</p><p>“Hang on,” says Tommy, frowning, “she didn’t want you to go to your grandfather’s funeral?”</p><p>“Was that deliberate?” Jonathan asks carefully. Elizabeth bites her lower lip.</p><p>“Perhaps. I don’t know. My mother can be a… a complicated woman. Maybe she meant to send me a letter earlier and it slipped her mind.”</p><p>Jonathan refrains from pointing out that a telegram is fourpence for a dozen words and reaches its destination faster than a letter. Besides, the phrasing of the letter he’s just read speaks of someone knowing perfectly what they were saying. For once, he keeps his mouth shut, and gives Elizabeth the choice of continuing or not, if she wants.</p><p>She does.</p><p>Her father suffers from melancholia, Elizabeth explains, and every time he has to go to the sanatorium – for his own safety, she adds with a quiver in the last word – her mother and extended family take great pains to keep the reason for it under wraps. They all keep up the pretence that Mr McAllister has bad lungs and regularly needs the seaside air; meanwhile, the atmosphere at home is so stifling it often makes Elizabeth feel like her own lungs are full of water.</p><p>She also talks about her paternal grandparents, who both encouraged her to go to Oxford, especially her grandmother, who died six months before Elizabeth began her first year. She says that after her grandfather died in February she was torn between obeying her mother and coming home to her father’s side, or staying and keeping the promise she’d made to her grandmother.</p><p>“Perhaps I <em>should</em> have gone home. Even if… B–but I got selfish and insisted on studying when…” Elizabeth stops, takes a trembling breath. She’s gripping her own fingers so tightly her knuckles are white. “May I… may I ask you a personal question, Tom?”</p><p>“Um.” Tommy goes slightly pink. Jonathan can’t help a smile when he realises why. The same thought seems to occur to Elizabeth, who finally reddens a little.</p><p>“It’s nowhere as… as intimate as my last ‘personal question’,” she hastens to add, “but you might – well. Please tell me if I’m overstepping my bounds.”</p><p>“Sure,” says Tommy uncertainly, like he’s half expecting another question about bedroom activities. “Ask away.”</p><p>Elizabeth takes another breath and asks in a low voice, “How did your father die?”</p><p>They end up talking a <em>lot</em> that day, until the sun starts to dip behind the Cricket Pavilion to their right. Jonathan is reminded of a night spent huddling with Tommy in a cold cellar and sharing memories, some fond, some absurd, some that still hurt even years later. They both recount some of them, the good and especially the bad, not to keep themselves warm this time, but to make it so Elizabeth isn’t the only one having her soul bared.</p><p>They even ask her, at some point, if she remembers the rumours of a break-in into St Hilda’s College last February.</p><p>“I heard about it,” says Elizabeth. Her voice is still a little hoarse, but it’s steadier, closer to what she usually sounds like. “A friend of mine knows someone there. She said two men were seen in a cellar and no-one ever knew how they got—”</p><p>She trails off and her eyes go round, her mouth a little ‘o’ of stupefaction.</p><p>“Did you – surely you didn’t –”</p><p>“Um,” says Jonathan, who is starting to wonder if he should regret bringing it up or not, “well, it was Tommy’s idea.”</p><p>“No it wasn’t!” Tommy protests hotly. “I just suggested St Hilda’s. <em>You</em> said we should try our luck in girls’ colleges.”</p><p>Elizabeth’s stare goes from one to the other, unblinking.</p><p>“But – but – <em>why?</em>”</p><p>Tommy throws a pointed look at Jonathan. “Jon ‘ere was worried we’d be found out if we didn’t look like we were still interested in girls. So we tried flirting for a time, but, er… turns out we weren’t too good at it.”</p><p>“I know,” says Elizabeth slowly, before correcting herself, “I – I mean I know you tried to court girls and weren’t… as successful as you would’ve liked to be.”</p><p>It’s kinder than the attempts in question deserve, but Jonathan doesn’t want to dwell on them.</p><p>“So I thought we might try sneaking into a girls’ college and actually have a chance to chat with someone,” he says. Looking back, he can’t believe he thought it was such a good idea. Hindsight makes it look completely ludicrous. “I mean, the shock value alone would have made a good conversation starter, don’t you think?”</p><p>Elizabeth stares at him and lets out a short open-mouthed puff of air that could either be a gasp or a strangled laugh.</p><p>“Anyway,” Jonathan continues hastily, “I still maintain it might have worked but for the padlock on the other side of the cellar door.”</p><p>“And the ram that beat the crap out of us,” mutters Tommy, and from there they have to go back and tell the entire sorry tale, or a slightly abridged version of it. After all, Elizabeth doesn’t need to know they had progressed a little further than kisses by the time the girls opened the padlock.</p><p>When the story ends, Elizabeth is visibly trying not to smile at their misfortune and failing, and the usual warmth that lights up her eyes has returned. It’s hard to regret looking a little ridiculous when Jonathan pictures her crying her eyes out earlier.</p><p>When they walk her back to her college later, she’s still a bit more subdued than usual, but she looks them straight in the eye one after the other and thanks them, using their first names.</p><p>Hours later, that night, Jonathan blinks at the ceiling in the dark for some time and makes a mental note to write to his sister and parents in the morning, because it’s been a while. He falls asleep alone, with the phantom sensation of a warm, strong hand in the small of his back and slender fingers curled around his.</p>
<hr/><p>The end of year exams are looming at the end of Trinity term like the sword of Damocles, but it doesn’t stop the days and weeks from flying by in a flurry of long classes between cool stone walls, merry evenings at the pub, and secret waltz lessons (Tommy is coming along nicely). The three also enjoy their regular meetings, which Jonathan is starting to associate with greenery and afternoons bathed in sunshine. There are too many potential onlookers for Tommy to try dancing with Elizabeth again (let alone with Jonathan), but she explains to him the proceedings of formal balls and gives him tips on proper etiquette. Jonathan, who only attended one or two white tie dances before, listens with rapt attention and a smile.</p><p>During one of these little trysts of theirs, as they’re ambling under the trees in Christ Church Meadow, they hear a girl call cheerfully “Oh, Elizabeth!” and a rather intriguing expression flashes across Elizabeth’s face.</p><p>The girl doesn’t do anything as vulgar as <em>run</em>, but somehow, the next minute she’s standing in front of them.</p><p>“Olivia,” says Elizabeth with a nod. Her eyes are warm, but her posture is unmistakeably defensive, chin up and shoulders just a little tense.</p><p>The girl’s smile widens. Her mouth is large and red, her eyes very dark, bright with barely-restrained mirth.</p><p>“Oh, darling, don’t worry, I won’t run off to tell the Dean you’re doing something as scandalous as taking a stroll with two friends in broad daylight,” she says, laughter in her voice, which is clipped and cultured in a way Jonathan recognises as the highest tier of the upper class. Also, her way of superbly ignoring the fact that none of them should even speak to one another until Elizabeth makes introductions is typical of a certain type of aristocrats: those who know the correct rules of conduct, but also know they are both titled and wealthy enough to pick which ones to obey and which ones to flout and get away with it.</p><p>Physically, the girl makes an interesting contrast with Elizabeth, whose attire is all shades of off-white with a touch of yellow at her waist and around the crown of her hat; the only vibrant hue is the deep red of her hair. The newcomer’s afternoon dress, wrapped up around her body like a flame and just as colourful, conveys a few things on its own: she is attractive, aware of that fact, and has the means to wear clothes that flatter her figure. By comparison her ash-blond hair looks drab.</p><p>Her remark makes Elizabeth’s face reflect – if only for a second – a sort of fond exasperation Jonathan is intimately familiar with, having seen it a thousand times in his sister’s eyes.</p><p>“Gentlemen, this is Miss Beresford, one of my classmates. Olivia, Thomas Ferguson and Jonathan Carnahan. They are classmates of my cousin’s – you remember Arthur, don’t you?”</p><p>“I do,” says Miss Beresford. “Capital fellow, if a little absent-minded for my liking.”</p><p>Elizabeth gives a quick smile and says, “Not everything has to be to your liking, Olivia.”</p><p>“But the world would be so much more fun if it was.” Miss Beresford turns a gimlet gaze on Jonathan and Tommy, dark eyes gleaming. “So <em>you</em> are Elizabeth’s suitors. You’re not at all what I expected.”</p><p>“Why,” asks Tommy, “what did you expect?”</p><p>“Hopeless romantics, maybe, or starving poets – or perhaps the kind of cads who see women as so many potential notches on their bedposts.” Something flashes in her eyes while Elizabeth goes red at the innuendo. “I must say, I got quite curious.”</p><p>“Do we pass muster, then?” asks Jonathan, who is getting rather curious himself. As brash and bold as this girl is, it doesn’t feel as though there’s any hostility between her and Elizabeth, latent or otherwise.</p><p>Miss Beresford’s slight smile unveils a sharp upper eye tooth.</p><p>“That, Mr… Carnahan, entirely depends on your conduct towards Miss McAllister. If you or your cohort ever show a hint of breaking our Elizabeth’s heart, I regret to say measures shall have to be taken.”</p><p>Jonathan only has a vague idea of what Arthur McAllister meant when <em>he</em> talked about taking ‘measures’, but from his tone of voice it was clear Arthur would not be happy about it. Despite her smile, something in Miss Beresford’s tone suggests she would have no compunction whatsoever about disembowelling them should anything happen to Elizabeth. Or having someone else do it. Jokes or not, Jonathan has a funny feeling she’s quite serious.</p><p>“Perish the thought,” he says airily with what he hopes is a disarming smile.</p><p>“We’d never do anything to break her heart,” adds Tommy earnestly.</p><p>Elizabeth, her cheeks still a little pink, points out, “I know it might look otherwise, but as I already told you, Olivia, I <em>am</em> quite safe on that account.”</p><p>“If you say so, Elizabeth.” The sharpness in Miss Beresford’s eyes softens just a little. “Still – be careful. This game is not worth letting yourself get hurt, and sooner or later someone will.”</p><p>“Really, Olivia…”</p><p>“Some day you’re going to have to make a choice, my darling, and you will have regrets whatever you choose. The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be. Think about it.”</p><p>Miss Beresford’s tone is not unkind; if theirs was a real courtship this would probably be sound advice, if a little too forward. Jonathan glances at Elizabeth, expecting her to be blushing deeply, as she usually does when these matters are being discussed. He’s very surprised to see she has gone pale under her freckles, although her chin is still up, her back very straight.</p><p>“I will take this into consideration,” says Elizabeth, her voice slightly subdued.</p><p>“Good.” Miss Beresford flashes a smile to the three of them, then looks at Elizabeth again. “See you at hall this evening?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“We might quiz each other on the Anglo-Dutch Wars. I always get the Second and Third mixed up. Which has the Great Fire again? Oh, goodness gracious,” she says with a laugh, “I apologise for boring you, gentlemen. I’ll leave you to your stroll, shall I? Mr Ferguson, Mr Carnahan, it’s been a pleasure.”</p><p>“Likewise,” says Jonathan, just a little uncertainly. Miss Beresford gives him and Tommy one last sharp look, then is off as swiftly as she appeared.</p><p>She leaves behind a somewhat awkward silence. Jonathan, who has no patience at all for awkward silences, is naturally the first to break it.</p><p>“Well,” he tells Elizabeth, “good thing you don’t actually <em>have</em> to choose between the two of us. If you picked Tommy over me I would be utterly broken-hearted.”</p><p>He means it as a joke, but it falls slightly flat. Elizabeth is still staring at the spot Miss Beresford just left, something complicated in her eyes, while Tommy has shoved his hands into his pockets, looking a little ill at ease. Jonathan shakes his head and offers her his arm.</p><p>“C’mon, enough of this nonsense. So, where was that Great Fire she was talking about, and, most importantly, who was playing the fiddle this time? There’s always one, isn’t there?”</p><p>This finally draws a real smile from her, and she proceeds to explain the 1666 fire of London to him and Tommy. Elizabeth McAllister is a history enthusiast, both patient and passionate; while it takes some prodding for her to let herself delve into her favourite subjects, once she is set on that path, one can’t help but be drawn in along with her. Jonathan only lets his mind stray for a second before giving the conversation his full attention.</p><p>It’s the second time someone pointed out that a three people dance always ends with a couple and someone alone on the sidelines. The joke is on them, thinks Jonathan resolutely; there is absolutely no need for Elizabeth to choose one dance partner over the other.</p><p>He and Tommy dance just fine on their own, after all.</p>
<hr/><p> </p>
<p></p><div>
  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote1anc" id="sdfootnote1sym" name="sdfootnote1sym">1</a>Unfortunately for Oxford (and Jonathan who was looking forward to seeing the next edition), this would be the last Boat Race until 1920… and 1913 was the last Oxford victory for a decade. It be like that sometimes.</p>
</div><div>
  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote2anc" id="sdfootnote2sym" name="sdfootnote2sym">2</a>“seize (the/your) lover”, male or female – with apologies to the Roman poet Horace.</p>
</div><div>
  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote3anc" id="sdfootnote3sym" name="sdfootnote3sym">3</a>Oscar Wilde.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jonathan’s and Tommy’s mothers are kind women with a fierce and all-encompassing love for their children. Elizabeth’s mother... loves her daughters, in her own way, but she’s a gaslighting piece of work (which I hope comes across in her letter) and her attitude did (and is still doing, at least for now) a lot of harm to Elizabeth’s psyche. (<strike>I may have put a smidge of personal experience in this.</strike>)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Trinity term ends – A summer’s ball – Waltzes – One, and the other</i>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>January and February seemed to crawl on at a snail’s pace, and March was little better. For some reason April flies by: it hardly feels like weeks pass between the end of the last vacation and the dreaded end-of-year exams, in early May.</p><p>When they finally come, they are, simply put, a nightmare. It’s easy to be lackadaisical and cavalier all year, but a lot less when one is sitting in the kind of heavy silence usually associated with wakes, chewing one’s pencil, and trying to remember which pharaoh’s death opens the <em>Story of Sinuhe</em>. Jonathan and Tommy both spend the whole week alternating spells of black, listless mood and desperate hurry as they attempt to swot up on everything they feel they didn’t study enough. Which suddenly feels like <em>everything</em>, to their dismay.</p><p>At some point in the night before the last exam, when his skull feels like he simply can’t cram a single fact more into it even if he used a hammer, Jonathan takes Tommy’s hand and asks for a dance. The fact that Tommy immediately closes his book and gets up tells Jonathan he’s not the only one who feels like his brain is about to leak out of his ears.</p><p>As usual, there is no music; it often makes Jonathan wish he had a phonograph. There isn’t much space in his room, either, but by now they’ve got used to being careful enough they don’t smack into walls or bump into the furniture.</p><p>Jonathan is so exhausted he finds it easy to be led, and Tommy is so tired he forgets to be self-conscious about his perceived lack of dancing skills. As a result, they really do waltz quite decently – at least until the space between them gradually dwindles, the rhythm slows close to a standstill, and Jonathan almost falls asleep on his feet, right there against Tommy.</p><p>“You are <em>not</em> a bad dancer, you know,” he murmurs in Tommy’s ear not much later, after they’ve put away all the dictionaries, the treatises, and the translations, after they’ve stripped down to their drawers and tumbled into bed with their eyes closed.</p><p>Tommy gives a sleepy chuckle.</p><p>“Yeah, well. ‘M not sure waltzing cheek to cheek is allowed. Not between blokes, anyway.”</p><p>“It should be,” Jonathan manages to get out just before he falls asleep for good.</p><p>The last day of exams is hell. At least, Tommy points out to Jonathan as they all file out of the hall, grey-faced and hollow-eyed, if this didn’t kill them, then it’s likely nothing will until old age. And at least they can now turn their minds to more cheerful matters, like the Summer Eights at the end of May, Commemoration Week at the end of June, and all the upcoming festivities. Like most students, they welcome any distraction to get their minds off the results.</p><p>The timing couldn’t be better, really. Tommy has improved in leaps and bounds these past few weeks; as his main teacher, Jonathan can’t wait for him to show off a little. So when he hears that the Cricket Club is holding a ball next Sunday, he hurries to snag three tickets and sends one to Elizabeth.</p><p>“You’ll pay me back later,” he says when Tommy protests.</p><p>“I can barely dance, Jon! What if I make a fool of meself?”</p><p>“I told you, you can dance just fine. Look – if you do have a miserable time, then you won’t have to pay me back. All right?”</p><p>Tommy grumbles, but agrees.</p><p>On the night, he looks marginally happier about it when they meet outside of the college to get a hansom cab (they are <em>not</em> walking all the way to Norham Gardens in dress shoes). He also looks nothing short of spiffing, if a little self-conscious, and Jonathan doesn’t hesitate to tell him so.</p><p>They have worn black tie for formal halls, but Tommy prefers informal hall, and so rarely dons evening wear. Jonathan knows his suit is second-hand and his mother altered it to better fit her son, which is one of the things Tommy is self-conscious about. But the crisp lines really bring out his shoulders and his broad chest while flattening the hint of chub on his belly – another thing that makes Tommy uncomfortable. It also makes him stand straighter, taller.</p><p>Honestly, it’s a damn shame two gents can’t be seen dancing with one another without risking prison. Jonathan would be right chuffed and not a little proud to walk into the ballroom hand in hand with Tommy Ferguson.</p><p>Tommy’s ears go pink at Jonathan’s compliment.</p><p>“You don’t look so bad yourself,” he says as he brings his fingers up to adjust the white carnation at Jonathan’s lapel.</p><p>It’s a small gesture, inconspicuous enough to get away with if anyone happens to glance their way. What it stirs in Jonathan is precisely the sort of thing he was deathly afraid of when it dawned on him – although ‘crashed’ would be a more accurate term – that he was in love with Tommy. The sudden rush of affection makes his stomach tighten and his heart skip a beat, he can feel his cheeks grow hot, and <em>he doesn’t care</em>. There, more than anywhere else, lies the danger.</p><p>Tommy’s eyes meet his, and the same rush seems to hit him. They barely glance at each other during the five-minute cab ride. Only, since they have to sit close together anyway and the driver is too busy yelling at his horses, the competition’s, or reckless pedestrians to spot tiny details, their hands clasp in the dark and stay entwined until the cab slows down and stops.</p><p>The venue the Cricket Club rented for the night is smallish, nothing like the grand college halls where formal balls will be held in something like a month. There’s already people milling on the pavement around the door, greeting each other and chatting loudly. The men are all in black with white bow ties, shirts, and waistcoats, while almost all the women wear white, as befits unmarried young ladies going to a ball. There is hardly any colour but the occasional brown or blond of people’s hair; without the warm yellow lights it might look like the time Jonathan’s parents took him and Evy to see the moving pictures.</p><p>Inside, in the midst of all the swishing and rustling, Jonathan and Tommy find several classmates and acquaintances, more girls than they have seen in one place since they set foot in Oxford, and, hugging a wall and casting nervous glances at the crowd, Elizabeth.</p><p>She’s wearing white, like all the girls are, a lovely little affair of silk taffeta sprinkled with a few sequins. For once all of her hair is swept up in a chignon held with a thin and shiny cord that looks almost too delicate for the mass of frizzy hair it’s meant to hold in place.</p><p>Her eyes dart across the room, find Jonathan and Tommy, and her expression relaxes. It’s hard to tell which blooms first and glows brighter, her smile or the blush on her cheeks.</p><p>“You look wonderful!” she exclaims once they all meet halfway across the room. “My goodness, look at you both!”</p><p>Tommy’s ears went pink earlier when Jonathan complimented him. Now they’re so red they would probably be glowing in the dark.</p><p>“Thanks,” he stammers. “You, uh… You look very nice as well.”</p><p>That’s one hell of an understatement. Elizabeth has never been ugly; Jonathan remembers his first impression of her as ‘moderately pretty’ and has never thought back on it since. This Elizabeth, with her bright eyes, her beaming smile, and the elegant curls dancing around her face, is simply beautiful.</p><p>This is so unexpected that Jonathan’s brain trips. Good thing he’s always been able to think on his feet.</p><p>“Er. Um. Very nice indeed.”</p><p>…Which doesn’t necessarily mean picking the right thing to say. Not only his usual eloquence seems to have legged it, but he can feel himself blush harder than Tommy.</p><p>
  <em>Come on, old boy, you know better than to go tongue-tied because a pretty girl is smiling at you. Pull yourself together.</em>
</p><p>He clears his throat.</p><p>“So, how’s the old dance card looking? I hope you saved a few spots for us.”</p><p>Elizabeth flushes but smiles slightly.</p><p>“To be honest, I’ve only had three offers so far. A Mr Carpenter and a Mr Coote, plus a Mr Clarke to whom I promised the first one-step. But the first waltz is yours, Mr Ferguson,” she adds with a bolder smile and a deeper blush, “if you’ll have me.”</p><p>Tommy beams.</p><p>“Gladly,” he says, while Jonathan takes out his own dance card.</p><p>“Let’s see about making it official, then.”</p><p>There are sixteen dances with an interval in the middle, mostly waltzes and one-steps, with the occasional polka. Jonathan snags a few of the more spirited numbers, including ‘Die Moldau’, the ‘Estudiantina’, and a waltz from Tchaikovsky’s <em>Sleeping Beauty</em> ballet; Tommy only picks waltzes, most of them slow, like ‘Bethena’, an unexpected Scott Joplin song. When they’re done, their cards still have a few holes, but Elizabeth’s is almost full. She stares at it for a few seconds before putting it away.</p><p>“I’ve been in Oxford for almost two years now,” she confesses in a low voice as awful noises rise from the orchestra, a sign that musicians are tuning up their instruments and that actual music is imminent, “and this is the very first ball I go to.”</p><p>“Wait, really?” says Tommy while Jonathan turns surprised eyes at her.</p><p>“Why is that?”</p><p>“I don’t… socialise very much. Not in that way. Olivia – Ms Beresford, you’ve met her – is always telling me I should go out and enjoy ‘student life’ more, but <em>she’s</em> gregarious and outgoing, and a lot braver than I am in that respect.”</p><p>“Well,” says Tommy, his tone reassuring, “we’re in this together, all three of us. We’ll dance, we’ll chat, and we’ll have a great time.”</p><p>Jonathan nods.</p><p>“Hear hear. Besides, this is our first ball here, too. Quite the milestone for the three of us, I’ll wager.”</p><p>Elizabeth throws them a grateful look.</p><p>The ball opens with a one-step, which means the Mr D. Clarke on Elizabeth’s dance card whisks her away for a fast stroll across the room while Jonathan and Tommy go in search of girls who still have gaps in their own dance cards.</p><p>When the first waltz starts, Tommy is looking stiff and nervous until Elizabeth whispers encouragements to him, too low for Jonathan to hear. It seems to work, and wonder of wonders, he relaxes and lets the music guide his steps. Which, for someone who has never waltzed to actual music – if you don’t count the one time Elizabeth provided a reluctant accompaniment – is fairly impressive. Jonathan is quite proud.</p><p>Jonathan spends the waltz – the inevitable ‘Blue Danube’ – twirling a pretty blonde with thin lips and a pointy nose. She keeps trying to lead. It’s a relief to hear the song come to a close and be able to bow out.</p><p>Elizabeth appears in time with the opening trills of ‘Die Moldau’. Jonathan holds out his hand, and she takes it with a smile.</p><p>They’ve only danced together the one time, when the sole point was showing Tommy the steps. Not that it really counted as actual dancing: Jonathan’s mind was mostly on making his movements as easy to follow as possible, not on appreciating dancing with Elizabeth. Now, though, there is music, the right atmosphere, and absolutely no goal but to enjoy the rhythm, the sweeping melody, and the warm, supple body in his arms.</p><p>Not in <em>that</em> way, of course. This is Elizabeth, after all. As fun as dancing with her is, one simply does not think of one’s friends in that context, especially if one already has somebody on his mind whom one very much enjoys dancing with in more than one way.</p><p>For some reason Jonathan is suddenly very glad that they’re both wearing gloves and that Elizabeth’s cover almost the length of her arms.</p><p>“Enjoying your first ball so far, Lizzie?” he asks with a grin as he makes their movements more ample to follow a swell in the music.</p><p>Elizabeth doesn’t miss a beat as she smiles and replies, “Very much, Mr Carnahan. If I knew all balls were this much fun I might have shown my face at a few some time ago. Thank you for securing a ticket for me, by the way.”</p><p>“Not at all. It’s nice to know I <em>can</em> come up with a good idea every once in a while. Tommy’s always wary when I say I have an idea.” To be fair to Tommy, half of Jonathan’s ideas do turn out terrible, more or less. To be fair to Jonathan, half of them do turn out… not terrible. “How did our dear Mr Ferguson do for his first formal dance?”</p><p>“Quite good, actually! You’d never believe it was his first. He really must have practised a lot.”</p><p>“Oh, he did.”</p><p>At first Jonathan had insisted on practising shoeless because they were less liable to make odd noises in stockinged feet. Then – although he would never tell Tommy this – it became about protecting his own instep. He’s nowhere as proficient as Elizabeth in the art of avoiding his partner’s feet.</p><p>They keep chatting as they dance, and once the music stops they keep leaving and finding each other again. Elizabeth alternates between him and Tommy with few pauses. From the high colour in her cheeks and the way her eyes gleam at them both, she’s enjoying her evening quite a lot.</p><p>She’s a little breathless when the ‘Estudiantina’ waltz draws to a close and Jonathan places her hand in Tommy’s for the next one. He has this one free, and to be honest he’s not unhappy about that. A little breather is just what he needs. Plus it will finally give him an occasion to observe Tommy’s progress as he dances with Elizabeth.</p><p>They do make a good-looking pair, Jonathan thinks as they sway and bob in time with the music. Tommy, Jonathan is glad to note, looks relaxed. He’s still a little stiffer than what the music requires, but no more so than some other dancers around them; he’s about average. <em>And</em> he benefits from having an excellent partner. There is no noticeable effort on his part as he guides Elizabeth across the room, amongst the other couples, and she follows his lead easily, gracefully. Their movements are long and slow, matching the gentle rhythm.</p><p>The room is crowded, and Jonathan is one of the very few people not dancing right now. So he leans his back on the wall, crosses his arms, and watches Tommy with a smile.</p><p>It’s not often that he can indulge so much. Much as he enjoys sneaking a glance here and there, spotting which pocket someone keeps his valuables in – if only in order not to make the same mistake – or studying his partners when he plays cards, Jonathan isn’t keen on the kind of long, lingering gaze one might find in romance novels. He’s made use of it a few times to make a potential dance partner understand he was amenable to pursuing a more intimate sort of dance, and when his mind starts to drift he tends to not notice where his eyes stray. But in civilised places – viz, places with human beings in them – a chap gazing longingly at another chap can lead to trouble.</p><p>Right now, though, Jonathan is protected by the lights, bright where they fall and absent where they don’t, and the couples twirling around. For once he really can enjoy Tommy’s bright eyes, his warm smile, the broad outlines of his shoulders; he even lets himself wish he could run a hand through Tommy’s hair, neatly combed for once. He lets his gaze fall on Tommy’s face, his large hand delicately holding Elizabeth’s in his, the elegant lines of her arm that end with a lovely round shoulder, her neck, chin held proudly, her sweet round lips which look so soft and just as kissable as Tommy’s do…</p><p>…wait.</p><p>
  <em>Wait.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What!?</em>
</p><p>Jonathan once witnessed a horse kicking a coachman in the chest. Glancing though the blow was, the fellow was flung back and had to be rushed to a doctor with a crushed ribcage. Jonathan remembers vividly the half-second of stunned shock on the coachman’s face just before the pain registered.</p><p>His own half-second stretches into a second, then two, and Jonathan’s ribcage remains intact. Not that it feels like it.</p><p>Jonathan takes a trembling breath, and looks at Tommy and Elizabeth again.</p><p>Everything hits him a second time in a much less subtle way than the first. This time he fully registers details like the delicate hollow at the base of her throat, the freckles on her upper arms that stand out all the more framed between the bright white of her dress and her gloves, the way the fabric bunches up slightly where Tommy’s hand rests on her waist… Little things that all fade into the background when Jonathan catches her eyes, very bright under long auburn lashes. Eyes, lips, dimples – her whole face is smiling brilliantly, mirroring Tommy’s, and oh God Jonathan wants to kiss these lips so badly it hurts… and he has no idea whose lips he wants to be kissing, his or hers.</p><p>In fact, he realises amidst the sheer chaos in his head, what he wants is to kiss <em>and</em> be kissed, to hold and be held, to slowly unpin the mass of long, frizzy hair while a pair of strong arms tightens around him, and he’s always known he was a far cry from ‘normal’ but surely this takes the bloody biscuit?!</p><p>Tommy shifts his hold on Elizabeth’s waist slightly as they sway a little deeper to follow the music, and Jonathan forgets how to breathe. Tommy thinks of his own body as clumsy and awkward, but he’s never seen himself as he trails kisses down Jonathan’s breastbone. He’s never seen himself rock gently – shoulders, torso, hips – as he sets the rhythm for the kind of dance that sends them both to the stars. Tommy never sees himself move, but Jonathan does, which is why he recognises a flash of that slow, powerful grace he knows so well and loves so much. His brain stutters.</p><p>Elizabeth moves her thumb ever so slightly along Tommy’s, silk against kidskin, and they both laugh at something she says, inaudible. Jonathan whimpers and flees.</p><p>Outside, the night is shades of blue punctuated by the occasional lamppost and a few lit windows across the street. It’s mild, almost cool, but not nearly cold enough to give Jonathan the change of air he badly needs. The music follows him out, the rhythm slow but relentless, <em>one-two-three one-two-three one-two-three</em>… He totters along the building, head spinning, finds a spot between two windows, and leans heavily against the brick wall.</p><p>And breathes. (Or tries to.)</p><p>Jonathan wanted Tommy before he fell in love with him. To be honest, kissing him in the Oxford Arms was something he’d been hankering for, and for some time. Jonathan woke up once or twice after a night out wishing he could let his hands run on the warm body next to him, kiss his neck, and all kinds of activities which aren’t wise thinking about when one is trying (and failing) to will away a persistent morning erection.</p><p>Acknowledging that he was actually <em>in love</em> with Tommy came in the wake of a tidal wave of pleasure like nothing he had known before. It shattered Jonathan quite thoroughly, and in the process of piecing himself back together he realised that he and his best friend had in fact just made love and he wanted to keep making love with him for as long as he could.</p><p>In hindsight, no wonder he’d panicked.</p><p>But where does <em>Elizabeth</em> fit in?</p><p>Maybe it’s just desire, Jonathan tries to suggest. Half his brain is in complete shambles, and from the image printed on the back of his eyelids the other half stayed inside the ballroom to watch Tommy and Elizabeth. Maybe it’s a silly temporary infatuation, brought on by the novelty of seeing her in evening wear, and it will fade away as quickly as it—</p><p>Jonathan’s treacherous mind points out immediately that, if it was indeed a one-time thing, he wouldn’t enjoy spending time with her so much. He wouldn’t go out of his way to make her smile, and even better, laugh. And he definitely wouldn’t still occasionally feel the ghost touch of her bare hand in his, or how warm and solid she felt as she stopped crying her eyes out in his arms and Tommy’s…</p><p><em>Tommy</em>.</p><p>Jonathan barely resists the urge to slide down the wall and on to the ground.</p><p>He’s never had many qualms about flirting with someone he knew was engaged elsewhere, and not many more about flirting when <em>he</em> was supposed to be engaged elsewhere. Jonathan knows he’s flighty – flaky, even, some might say. He’s cheated and been cheated on with no real hard feelings. But this – whatever he and Tommy have, however long it will last – is different. Jonathan has no idea what a broken heart feels like, and honestly he’s never thought it was something he could ever give a fig about, but he knows he doesn’t want to do <em>that</em> to Tommy.</p><p>Whom, he realises after a quick examination of the chaotic mess that seems to have taken up residence in his chest, he still loves, just as much as he has for the past few months. That hasn’t changed a jot. The name ‘Tommy Ferguson’, along with his face, his voice, his laughter still conjures up the same rush of warmth, fondness and desire combined, in Jonathan’s insides.</p><p>Tentatively, like he’s seen his parents poking at ancient and potentially very fragile artefacts, he invokes Elizabeth’s name, her warm presence, the smiles they manage to coax out of her, the way her eyes glittered up at him as they danced.</p><p>The rush is exactly the same.</p><p>
  <em>Two… The two of them!?</em>
</p><p>Jonathan lets his face fall into his hands with a groan.</p><p>“No matter, Murdock, I’ll just ask Carnahan here. Jonathan, do you happen to have a cig—oh, I say, old man, are you quite all right?”</p><p>Jonathan is frightfully tempted to answer either “No” or “Ask me again in an hour, or possibly ten years”. Sherry Coote is a little bit of a twit, albeit a well-meaning one, and right now Jonathan would like nothing more than to be left alone to sort out everything in his head. Or at least make a valiant attempt. So what he replies is “Yes. Absolutely.”</p><p><em>Give me a minute and I’ll even look it</em>.</p><p>“Don’t suppose you have a smoke on your person?”</p><p>Jonathan mechanically searches his pockets before he remembers he left his cigarette case in his room to avoid unsightly bulges in his crisp dinner jacket. He makes an apologetic gesture, empty hands raised.</p><p>“Ah, well. Looks like I’m doomed to do without for the rest of the night.” To Jonathan’s dismay, Sherry settles right next to him and nudges him gently. “Topping little soirée, what? Almost makes a fellow want to join the Cricket Club.”</p><p>This gets a non-committal noise out of Jonathan. Playing <em>at</em> cricket – i.e. hitting a ball with a bat – can be a lot of fun, but the game itself doesn’t hold much interest for him. It <em>is</em> convenient for placing bets, though.</p><p>“And the girls, goodness gracious! I just danced with McAllister’s cousin, what’s her name, Elizabeth? The one you and Ferguson are courting, I think. When I left her she was looking for you.”</p><p><em>Oh, bollocks</em>. Jonathan does remember picking the waltz just under Sherry Coote’s name, either ‘Fascination’ or Chopin’s ‘Barcarolle’. He has no idea how much time passed since his hasty exit, but there’s a good chance he’s missing most of it. With any luck Tommy didn’t want to leave Elizabeth alone on the sidelines and stepped in for him. Or they retreated to a less busy corner of the room to chat and wait for him to make a reappearance.</p><p>Sherry throws him a sideways glance and asks, uncharacteristically hesitant, “You do look a trifle pale, you know. If you want me to call a cab –”</p><p>“No, thank you,” says Jonathan, snapping back to the here and now. “I suppose I had a bit of a turn, but I’m all right now. Thanks for your concern.”</p><p>Sometimes it helps to have a talent for lying. Jonathan doesn’t come close to what usually feels “all right” for him. But, as he realises once he’s taken stock of everything, he is back to functioning enough to successfully pretend he is. Most of his internal organs are back in their proper places, the fog in his head has cleared, and if his hands are still shaking a little his legs feel quite steady enough to stand on.</p><p>Sherry nods thoughtfully.</p><p>“If you’re sure, old thing, if you’re sure. Well, I’d better hurry back – I still have two dances left on my card. Oh, I do hope I can get a third!”</p><p>“Can’t help you much in that regard, I’m afraid,” says Jonathan with a small smirk and an attempt at his usual irony. “I hear chaps dancing with other chaps is very much frowned upon.”</p><p>Sherry blushes to the roots of his hair – Jonathan barely refrains from raising an eyebrow – and they leave the quiet of the night behind in favour of the warm lights and the bustle inside.</p><p>“Don’t get me wrong,” says Sherry with a dismissive gesture that looks a little forced, “I’m sure dancing with you would make a girl happy, but I’m not a girl, am I?”</p><p>No he’s not, Jonathan thinks, but if his instincts aren’t steering him wrong – and they rarely do, not in <em>these</em> matters anyway – Sherard ‘Sherry’ Coote definitely wouldn’t mind a dance or two with a fellow. He resolutely ignores this unexpected suspicion and grins like Sherry just made a very funny joke.</p><p>“Besides,” Sherry says, “it would hardly be fair to you, wouldn’t it, considering how long you’ve been… well. Unavailable.”</p><p>Jonathan’s heart stills in his chest.</p><p>“What do you mean?” he asks prudently once his voice comes back.</p><p>“Just that you and Ferguson have been courting Arthur’s cousin for months now, haven’t you? She really must be quite something to have snatched the attention of two blokes in one fell swoop.”</p><p>Jonathan, relieved beyond words, makes to reply something appropriately cavalier when he spots Tommy and Elizabeth amongst the dancers.</p><p>The orchestra is indeed playing Chopin’s ‘Barcarolle’, and Tommy did step in for Jonathan. They look just as happy and relaxed as they did earlier; their movements are natural and flowing, with none of Elizabeth’s usual diffidence or Tommy’s usual awkwardness. They are, quite clearly, completely at ease with each other.</p><p>Tommy says something and grins. Elizabeth tries to hold back her smile, but dimples into one nonetheless.</p><p>The effect is devastating.</p><p>“Yes,” says Jonathan vaguely. “Really quite something.”</p><p>If he was a little less shaken, a little more in his right mind, he would notice Sherry’s curious gaze jump to the dancers, then him, then Tommy and Elizabeth again, and then soften.</p><p>“Oh my dear chap,” says Sherry, his voice low. “I am so sorry.”</p><p>He does sound like it. Jonathan frowns a little.</p><p>“What for?”</p><p>“You actually love that girl, don’t you? And, well…” Sherry gestures to Elizabeth – and Tommy – and finishes, genuine sympathy in his eyes, “It appears her affections lie elsewhere.”</p><p>The implications are transparent.</p><p>Why do people talk about heartaches? The pain is lower than that, barely above Jonathan’s middle, a white-hot needle searing a path under his ribs. Something rises in his throat for a second, and he has no idea whether it’s bile or hysterical laughter. Wouldn’t it be ridiculous if he loved Tommy <em>and</em> Elizabeth, while Elizabeth loved Tommy and Tommy loved <em>him</em>? Love triangles are one of the clichés he despises the most in all of literature. But is it still a love triangle if one poor bastard is besotted with the other two?</p><p>Then he takes another look at Elizabeth.</p><p>Her eyes are shining, her breast heaving, her smile alone would be enough to light up the whole room. Evidently she is having the time of her life waltzing with Tommy. The expression on her face is warm with a naked fondness that makes Jonathan’s insides give a nasty twist… Until it hits him that it’s precisely the way she looked at him earlier, while they twirled and swayed across the room to Smetana’s ‘Moldau’.</p><p>The tension bleeds out of him so swiftly his shoulders sag.</p><p>Not a triangle, after all. Just one hapless fool who prides himself on his cynicism and still managed to fall in love with two people. One of whom actually loves him back. He shouldn’t complain, really.</p><p>“Ah, well,” Jonathan says with an effort, “<span><em>c’est la vie</em>, I think the saying goes.”</span></p><p>Sherry gives him a commiserating look and leaves him in search of his next partner.</p><p>The rest of the ball passes in an odd mix of endless seconds and very short minutes. Jonathan has a couple of dances, each with a girl he’s never seen before and will likely never see again baring improbable coincidence. The last dance is for Elizabeth.</p><p>And it is torture. Delicious torture, but torture nonetheless.</p><p>It’s hard to keep his hand from trembling when he slips it around her waist. And it’s even harder not to feel like a prize idiot when he can’t help but wonder whether she can hear his heart pound in his chest along with the melody, <em>one-two-three one-two-three</em> –</p><p>(and of course, what should it be but another bloody waltz, and a slow one, at that)</p><p>– and suddenly Jonathan can’t remember the last time he has wanted to kiss someone so very badly without being able to.</p><p>Elizabeth’s eyes rise and catch his, not much higher, and she says, just loudly enough to carry over the music, “Thank you again for sending me a ticket to this ball, Jonathan. I had the most lovely evening.”</p><p>Jonathan’s mouth is dry like it never gets outside of the time he spends in Egypt. She almost never calls him ‘Jonathan’.</p><p>“So did I,” he manages to say. “It’s not often we get to dress up for a dance.”</p><p>Elizabeth laughs quietly. “I know, I felt quite the Cinderella all evening. To be honest I fully expect to be turned into a mouse when midnight strikes. Or a lizard.”</p><p>“Cinderella was a kitchen maid, though,” Jonathan points out. “So as ‘the fairest of them all’ you wouldn’t get transformed back into an animal – you’d still be a girl.”</p><p>Her eyes widen slightly, and he replays his last sentence in his head. It takes all his willpower not to go crimson.</p><p>“I, er, seem to have my fairy tales mixed up. Sorry about that. Point still stands, though.”</p><p>She goes pink under her freckles at this, but to his relief doesn’t raise the compliment.</p><p>“Do you think…” She takes a deep intake of breath. Her gaze drops to the ground, then snaps back up to meet his. “Do you think you might like to repeat the experience sometime? Not necessarily for dancing, but there’s a concert next week – suites from <em>The Nutcracker</em> and <em>L’Arlésienne</em>, if I recall correctly – Tom seemed interested, but it wouldn’t feel right without you, and—”</p><p><em>It’s a bad, bad idea</em>, whispers the little voice of sanity in the back of Jonathan’s mind. <em>What you should do is cut your losses and run, say </em>anything<em> as long as it’s a lie, this is going to end badly, mark my words</em>…</p><p>For once, Jonathan agrees. He opens his mouth to politely decline –</p><p>“I’d love to.”</p><p>Elizabeth glows.</p><p>Jonathan is a flayed man, every single nerve exposed.</p><p>She tactfully refrains from asking why he missed a dance with her, and he carefully doesn’t bring up the subject. After a while their conversation fades. It would be so easy to just relax and enjoy waltzing with her; Elizabeth, usually so shy and reserved she seems to constantly endeavour to take up as little space as possible, is swift, graceful, and there is something like quiet triumph in the way she moves. But all Jonathan can think of is the feel of her warm, slender waist under his palm, bleeding through his glove, how Tommy’s hand looked on that very same spot, and how much he wants Tommy’s other hand in the small of his back. <em>All at the same time</em>.</p><p>Being with a woman (an unmarried one) when you’re a man is frowned upon, but tolerated.</p><p>Being with a man when you’re a man is Not Allowed at all and punishable by law.</p><p>Being with both surely must be a whole new level of taboo. Something to be alluded to only in the most trashy of dime novels, the most vulgar of jokes. Something ugly and demeaning, to be laughed at and despised.</p><p>Unspeakable, unthinkable.</p><p>Well. There is no way in hell, or heaven, or whatever comes next that Jonathan is going to drag Tommy and Elizabeth down with him. Elizabeth might just die on the spot with embarrassment at the mere mention of sharing any kind of intimacy with him anyway, and Tommy surely knows better than letting his eyes and his heart stray that way. Besides, Jonathan suspects, sometimes Tommy has enough on his plate simply <em>being</em> with him in the first place.</p><p>(“Do you think this means we’ll go to hell when we die?” Tommy whispered one night while they both drifted down from the highest heights, still wrapped around and in one another. Jonathan kissed him fiercely and replied, “If we are, then it’ll have been worth it.” It’s typically the kind of thing they tend to blurt out in these moments that sounds ridiculously maudlin afterwards, but that Jonathan can never bring himself to regret.)</p><p>Inevitably, the last waltz comes to an end. When the music stops and couples around them bow and applaud, Elizabeth leaves her hands where they are, one on his shoulder and the other entwined in his. Jonathan fails to let go of her waist.</p><p>Everything stills for a couple of heartbeats.</p><p>There are nine inches between them at the most – a yawning abyss. Elizabeth is close enough that Jonathan could count every single freckle on her face if he wanted. Her cheeks are red from exertion, her eyes blazing, her lips parted a little.</p><p>It would only take the smallest of movements, leaning ever so slightly, for them to close the space between them.</p><p><em>DON’T</em>, screams Jonathan’s voice of reason. <em>There are bad ideas and then there are Bad Ideas, you absolutely CANNOT kiss Elizabeth in front of everybody, even should she want you to, it would utterly destroy her, are you </em>completely<em> off your—</em></p><p>Someone brushes past them; the moment shatters. Jonathan comes back to himself.</p><p>And steps away from Elizabeth.</p><p>Later, as he’s standing on the pavement with Tommy, waiting for an empty cab, he wonders whether she really did shiver when they bent over her hand in turns or if he imagined it. He must have. There is no other explanation.</p><p>Tommy’s card must have been fuller than his: he looks so exhausted he’s staring into the distance like he took a blow to the back of the head at some point. It appears his very first ball was a success, Jonathan thinks, and in spite of everything he can’t help but smile.</p><p>“Had a good evening, did you?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Tommy answers in a faraway voice, and doesn’t elaborate.</p><p>Silence falls, but only between the two of them. All around them people talk and laugh loudly as they wait for cabs of their own, still under the exaltation of a spirited dance. After a moment, Tommy turns to Jonathan and says, his tone just a little more normal, “To hell with takin’ a cab, I’m walking home. You coming?”</p><p><em>In those shoes?</em> a part of Jonathan protests silently. The rest of him shrugs it off. His feet – or Tommy’s – won’t thank him, but he could use cool night air and silence. Or at least the absence of horseshoes clattering on and a driver trying to make conversation.</p><p>He falls into step beside Tommy and they make their way down Norham Gardens, along the west fence of the University Parks. The only things that move are leaves from the trees that loom over the fence to their left, reminding Jonathan that the Parks are their favourite rendezvous spot with Elizabeth, where they met <em>and</em> where they deepened their understanding of one another. The atmosphere is peaceful, quiet since they left their fellow students behind. It’s both a balm and a curse, because the absence of noise leaves ample room in Jonathan’s head for thoughts to dart around and crash into one another.</p><p>The main one concerns Elizabeth, Tommy, and the fact that Jonathan may have betrayed both. After all, even though he did not kiss Elizabeth, he very much wanted to, even if he equally wanted – and still wants – to kiss Tommy.</p><p>And the thing is, no matter how aware he is that this would be a spectacularly bad idea, he <em>still</em> wants to kiss both Tommy and Elizabeth. <em>Together</em>. It merely takes the thought swimming to the surface of his mind for his breath to catch and electricity to run across the entirety of his skin.</p><p><em>Someday you’re going to have to make a choice</em>, Elizabeth’s friend told her a few weeks ago. Well, it certainly applies to Jonathan now as well. But the choice should be obvious in his case, so why isn’t it?</p><p>He lets out something between a sigh and a self-deprecating snicker.</p><p>Then Tommy stops abruptly, pulling him out of his thoughts.</p><p>“All right there, old chap?” Jonathan asks, vaguely worried at the funny expression on his face.</p><p>Tommy replies with a wordless “hm-hm” noise and doesn’t move.</p><p>“We can still take a cab if you want, it’ll save us a dozen minutes’ walk –”</p><p>“N—no.” Tommy breathes deeply and adds, “I have… something to say that I don’t want to share with a cab driver.”</p><p>Jonathan looks at him, uncertain, but lets him gather his words without interrupting.</p><p>Tommy sighs. “All right. Um. Jon –” he stops, takes another deep breath “– I love you.”</p><p>Despite the state of things inside Jonathan’s head (and, admittedly, his heart), despite the whirlwind of a night he’s had and the realisations that hit him with all the subtlety of a locomotive, the words still have the same effect they usually do: a bizarre mix of glowing warmth, low-key anxiety, and vague embarrassment. Love, for Jonathan, isn’t a thing to be said; it is something to be done, conveyed through actions, jokes, and gestures, always understated for fear of Being Sappy. He never knows what to answer without sounding utterly ridiculous. So he settles for the smile that already started to bloom on his face anyway.</p><p>And then the solemnity of Tommy’s tone hits him, and something in him freezes. Because when a man says <em>these</em> words in <em>that</em> tone of voice, either he’s about to get down on one knee (which… is inconceivable for so many reasons in this particular case) or there’s a yet unspoken “but” somewhere.</p><p>“Feeling enthusiastically reciprocated, old chap, you know that,” says Jonathan carefully. And then, because it’s like he physically can’t help making stupid quips in tense situations, he adds, “I don’t see us picking rings any time soon, though.”</p><p>Tommy makes a frustrated noise through his nose and runs a hand through his hair.</p><p>“Jon, for God’s sake, just – shut up and let me finish, it’s hard enough as it is, I—”</p><p>For a second, while Tommy searches his words, Jonathan feels like his entire body has been dipped into ice water. In a flash, he sees himself going through the remaining two years of his degree without Tommy sitting next to him in class, at hall, or rubbing elbows in a pub, without the warm camaraderie that sparked up between them practically since the first time they talked to each other, without his earnest brown eyes and unguarded laughter, without wild kisses and tight embraces and affectionate caresses after they’ve fallen from the same precipice –</p><p>It’s not a pretty picture.</p><p>Fortunately Tommy doesn’t let Jonathan feel sorry for himself for very long.</p><p>“It’s… I’m… Look, Jon…” Tommy inhales sharply and continues in a small, trembling voice that doesn’t sound like him at all, “I – I think I’m <em>also</em> in love with Liz.”</p><p>Jonathan stares at him, thunderstruck, for what feels like an eternity.</p><p>Then his body finally decides on a reaction without stopping to consult his brain. He starts to laugh and laugh and laugh, harder and harder, until his ribs hurt and tears stream down his face.</p><p>“Jon, what the hell—?” Tommy’s voice breaks through, sounding confused and angry. “Come on, mate, I’m bein’ serious ‘ere! If you’re gonna make fun –”</p><p>“I – I – I –” Jonathan is trying to stop laughing, honestly he is, but it’s like a dam burst. The only thing he can do is ride out the wave and try not to drown. Or suffocate, as it were. “I’m not, I – oh God, I’m sorry, it’s –”</p><p>He reaches out blindly and grabs something that turns out to be Tommy’s arm. It’s the only thing that keeps him from bending over completely as a fresh bout of laughter hits and he almost collapses.</p><p>After endless seconds, when he’s starting to calm down, he hears Tommy’s voice again.</p><p>“Jon, you’re turnin’ blue,” he says flatly. “If you’re gonna laugh at me, at least don’t kill yourself doin’ it.”</p><p>This effectively stops the last aftershocks and allows Jonathan to get some air into his lungs.</p><p>“Tommy,” he says between two gulping breaths, “I’m – I am <em>not</em> laughing at you. It’s just… God, your timing is impeccable.”</p><p>Tommy keeps staring at him, but he doesn’t let go of Jonathan’s arm, which Jonathan is grateful for, even if he mostly has his legs back by now.</p><p>“It just so happens that I spent most of the evening going stark raving mad over the two of you, and how good you looked together, and how badly I wanted to kiss the both of you all over. So I think it’s safe to say you aren’t alone in this.”</p><p>What happens next on Tommy’s face is fascinating. His eyebrows climb, his eyes widen, his mouth goes from a wry downturn to a small, slack-jawed ‘o’. Emotions flash in his eyes: suspicion, surprise, sheer shock, joy, and finally –</p><p>“Oh. Oh, bloody hell.”</p><p>“Yes,” says Jonathan, who never knew a fit of laughter could leave a fellow exhausted to the very bone, “my sentiment exactly.”</p><p>They both stand there, arms dangling, unsure. Jonathan doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh again, sink into the pavement, or – if the pubs were open at this hour, which they are not – get plastered like he never has before. It appears Tommy faces a similar dilemma. When he stirs again, he picks a fourth option: rub his face tiredly and adjust his hold on Jonathan’s arm into the familiar ‘going out of the pub’ stance.</p><p>“Well,” he says, somehow summing up the situation perfectly in only half a dozen words, “we are well and truly fucked.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you want to get a sense of what our boys and girl were dancing to, here is Smetana’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DjSiHtUVfMk">Die Moldau</a>” (my favourite ♥), Scott Joplin’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SskkUtimyLI">Bethena</a>”, and Chopin’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9umBE2Gn7Q">Barcarolle</a>” :o)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>A housing solution – More than kissing – Damned if you do, damned if you don’t – One, two, three</i> (NSFW)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is something reassuring to Jonathan, in a way, in knowing he is not alone in trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he’s in love with two people. Tommy is just as lost as he is, just as embarrassed about it, and just as uncomfortable with the questions it poses, namely <em>Does that mean I’m being unfaithful to you?</em> and <em>Does that mean I’m not enough somehow?</em> Fortunately, since it’s Tommy, it also means they can laugh about it over pints, or try to anyway, because the situation truly is ridiculous.</p><p>Jonathan loves Tommy, Tommy loves Jonathan, and they both love Elizabeth. It’s as simple as that. And Jonathan has rarely seen something as simple be so complicated. Because it’s not like the third member of their little trio – the term ‘love triangle’ really doesn’t apply, Jonathan decides – could ever return their feelings. Lightning striking the same spot twice is already said to be impossible; the odds of it striking a third time are simply too astronomical to contemplate.</p><p>It goes unsaid, but they agree to not breathe a word to Elizabeth. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do. Even if it means relying more on the old ‘stiff upper lip’ than Jonathan – or Tommy – has in all his life.</p><p>Elizabeth, clever girl, quickly picks up on their being unusually stiff and just a little too tight-lipped.</p><p>“Is something the matter?” she asks when they come out of the Cup and Chaucer, where they just had an excellent lemonade and a somewhat painful twenty minutes.</p><p>Tommy goes crimson, and Jonathan makes a vague gesture.</p><p>“Just a little nervous, I suppose. The exam results should be announced any day now.”</p><p>There’s always a measure of truth to the best lies. Jonathan is indeed nervous, and the exam results <em>are</em> due sometime in the next two weeks, but these two things are unrelated. Well, almost.</p><p>Elizabeth appears sceptical but is too polite to pry. So she steers the conversation to safer matters.</p><p>“Have you found accommodations for next year yet?”</p><p>“Not yet,” says Tommy, who looks grateful for the change of subject. “Not that we’ve been searchin’ a lot, really, but none of the flats we’ve seen were, uh… adequate.”</p><p>That’s putting it mildly. They’ve seen half a dozen flats so far; all of them had walls even thinner than what they’re used to in halls, and often went with a landlord or a landlady with sharp eyes and a clear affinity for snooping. Frustrating as it is to have to restrain themselves until they know they’re safe, Jonathan and Tommy have grown used to being able to share a room. Jonathan loves falling asleep wrapped around Tommy and waking up with Tommy wrapped around him, not to mention everything else they get up to between the sheets. If they can’t have that small luxury, even in the privacy of a home, it’s going to be a miserable year.</p><p>Elizabeth nods.</p><p>“Arthur has his eye on a little flat on Thames Street, but he will only know if he can have it in two or three weeks. Then again, if he can’t, he can always fall back on the Osney flat – ooh, there’s an idea.” She stops, smiles, and asks, “What sort of accommodations would you find suitable?”</p><p>Tommy and Jonathan look at each other.</p><p>“Well, um – two bedrooms, for starters,” says Tommy.</p><p>“And,” Jonathan adds, “a living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Ideally without a nosy landlady with the keys to the flat. And, er… thick walls. Soundproof.”</p><p>Talking about this with Tommy made them both a little pink in the face. Mentioning it in front of Elizabeth is making him flustered like a fifteen-year-old who’s never been kissed.</p><p>They all tacitly choose to ignore the fact that Elizabeth’s face goes bright red as she gives a nod, her eyes shining.</p><p>“A friend of my grandparents’ owns a house in Osney – that’s about a mile from your and Arthur’s college – that has two flats: one rather small, which Arthur might take if he doesn’t find closer lodgings, and a larger one, which she usually rents to a couple of students. I happen to know that this flat will be free in two weeks. What do you think?”</p><p>“What about our, ah, criteria?” asks Jonathan.</p><p>“And how much is the rent?” asks Tommy.</p><p>Elizabeth smiles and explains she visited the house once, with her grandfather, before she was sure she would have accommodations in Somerville College. Mrs Billington – the landlady – had been perfectly willing to put her up in the event that she couldn’t live elsewhere. It’s not a very large house, but it does have modern amenities like gas lighting, running water, and even a water heater. Besides, since the house isn’t far from the railroad, both flats have thick walls to keep out the noise. Which works both ways.</p><p>They talk about things like location and rent, and for all that it sounds a little too serendipitous to be true it does sound worthy of investigation. Meanwhile, Jonathan tries his best not to notice things like the soft curls that escaped Elizabeth’s plait and are dancing around her face, the way her fingers lace together and how much he wants to take her hand in his, or the smile she gives him and Tommy. It’s a large smile, bright and warm, and the imperfection of her protruding front teeth only makes it more charming.</p><p>Oh, God. He is so far gone it’s ridiculous.</p><p>At least he’s not the only one. On the other side of Elizabeth, Tommy is clearly having a hard time fighting the temptation to gaze at her too long, resulting in shifty eyes and awkward glances. He is standing stiffly, hands twisting his hat, elbows close to his torso like he’s afraid to even brush against her by accident. Jonathan certainly is. Consequently all three of them are the very picture of ‘proper’. Mrs Pemberton – who, as the Carnahans’ housekeeper, did not have to instil manners and decorum in him but <em>tried</em> – would approve.</p><p>“Do you think it’s because we’re just not used to being friends with a girl?” Jonathan asks Tommy later while they’re lounging on his bed, one against the headboard and the other against the footboard, respectively reading a novel and writing a letter home.</p><p>Tommy gives him an odd look.</p><p>“I don’t know. Why would you think that?”</p><p>“Well, we are men.”</p><p>“That’s debatable. ‘Lads’ would be more truthful. Or ‘idiots’,” Tommy mutters in an undertone. Jonathan concedes the point, and continues:</p><p>“What I mean is, can a man and a woman even <em>be</em> friends without… you know. Wanting more than that?”</p><p>This time Tommy rolls his eyes.</p><p>“Have you ever wanted to be more than friends with Arthur McAllister?”</p><p>“What? Good God, no!” Jonathan splutters. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a spiffing fellow, but I never – oh, I see your point.”</p><p>If someone like him, who has an incontrovertible appreciation for both the male and female form, can have friends on one side of the fence he does <em>not</em> want to kiss, then surely the same is true of the other side. And other people, whichever side they prefer.</p><p>“I see your point, though,” says Tommy more softly, laying a hand on Jonathan’s ankle, just under the hem of his trousers. It’s a small gesture, but the tenderness and warmth of it uncoils something tense in Jonathan’s chest. “Maybe we just… like her. A little more than we should. Doesn’t mean we want to, uh… do more than kiss her, does it?”</p><p>Jonathan makes a vague sound of agreement, hoping against hope he’s right.</p>
<hr/><p>Unfortunately, Tommy is proven wrong a few days later, after they get back from the pub before closing time, for once. They shared a table, a bowl of peanuts and a few pints with Arthur and Cherry and a few fellow soon-to-be second-years; it’s been a good evening, and Jonathan is looking forward to ending the night on a good note.</p><p>As always, he and Tommy take each other’s arm as they walk. When he’s locked the door of his room it’s each other’s lips they take, like it’s a competition, bumping noses and chins in their eagerness and laughing into each other’s mouths.</p><p>Honestly, Jonathan thinks giddily as they chuck away socks and drawers and sit on the bed, mouths and hands wandering all over each other, what more could he ask for? His skin is tingling, his hands are full of warm, yielding flesh and hard muscle, and when Tommy climbs on top of him and rests almost his full weight on his body he has to clamp a hand on his mouth to stop a loud gasp. Partly to muffle the sounds he can’t afford to make, and partly because he loves this spot so much, Jonathan buries his face in the crook of Tommy’s neck, making Tommy sigh.</p><p>None of it is new, but familiar isn’t a bad thing. Familiar means the smell of Tommy’s skin and the feel of Tommy’s palms as they roam over his body do <em>things</em> to Jonathan’s insides, half in their own right and half in anticipation. It means he knows exactly where and how to grab Tommy’s hips to pull him closer, even if it means sacrificing some of the air in his lungs. And it means being able to kiss every freckle on his shoulder with his eyes closed, just because he knows the pattern so well.</p><p>Why are freckles considered blemishes? They are splatters of colour on the canvas of Tommy’s pale skin, making it richer, like a map that gets more and more detailed as one looks closer. He’s less freckled than Elizabeth is, but there’s a little of them all over, scattered here and there on his shoulders, down his arms, along his ribs. Surely no treasure map could ever be more inviting.</p><p>Perhaps Elizabeth’s freckles stop at her throat, but Jonathan doubts it. From what little he’s seen of her uncovered by clothing – her collarbone, her forearms, plus a little bit of cleavage and the small area on her upper arms between her short sleeves and her gloves – all of her body must be covered in constellations. Like the sky on a clear night, but in colour and inverted.</p><p>The thought rises in the back of his mind, unbidden, unstoppable. Elizabeth. Her smile, her eyes. Her arms, her hands, her skin.</p><p>From there it’s a slippery slope Jonathan slides down inexorably. Before he can stop himself he’s picturing her and Tommy skin to skin, freckles to freckles, kissing and caressing as Jonathan is kissing and caressing <em>them </em>– her hand on Tommy’s chest and her legs tangled with Jonathan’s – Jonathan trailing his lips up her belly, between her breasts, and finding her mouth while she grasps his shoulders and Tommy settles against the skin of his back and takes him in hand—</p><p>It’s too much. Everything brims over; Jonathan’s vision goes white.</p><p>Tommy stops and opens his eyes to look at him.</p><p>“Jon?” he says, confused. He’s red-faced and his breathing has quickened, but it’s obvious the finish line is nowhere in sight where he’s concerned. “Did you just—?”</p><p>“I – I’m – oh, God.” Jonathan lets his head fall back on the mattress. When he closes his eyes he immediately opens them wide to stare at the ceiling, because the mental picture of Tommy and Elizabeth wearing only their freckles is still there, burned on the inside of his eyelids. “Oh, bloody <em>hell</em>.”</p><p>Release usually feels good. At best it’s mind-blowing, a glorious snapping of the sweet, agonising tension accumulated in the moments before. But now there’s a more unpleasant kind of tension twisting Jonathan’s guts, along with… yes, that is shame coiled there, swirling and simmering and souring everything. The sensation is not unprecedented, though rare, and it hits him like a freight train.</p><p>Now he <em>really</em> feels he has betrayed both Tommy and Elizabeth.</p><p>Tommy rolls off of him and grabs a handkerchief for a perfunctory clean-up, then settles along Jonathan’s side, one hand on his chest and one leg over his.</p><p>“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” he says. “We’ll do better next time.”</p><p>“It’s not <em>that</em>, it’s…”</p><p>Jonathan rubs his face and leaves his hands there, over his eyes. All the better to avoid meeting Tommy’s. God, he is wretched.</p><p>“I definitely want to do more than kiss Elizabeth,” he finishes miserably.</p><p>Silence answers him, which is why he ends up looking at Tommy again, because it’s still better than not seeing how he reacted to that statement.</p><p>Tommy hasn’t moved an inch from his position, his whole body snug against Jonathan’s. His face is still slightly flushed from their previous activities, rudely interrupted, and there is a curious expression in his eyes.</p><p>“How can you tell?” he asks, before he blinks and his mouth drops open. “Did you – did you imagine – instead of me?”</p><p>“No!” Jonathan exclaims. “God, no.” He rolls on his side to face Tommy, so close they’re practically nose to nose, and cups his face in his hands to kiss him. “Not ‘instead’,” he says as earnestly as he can, “‘with’. With <em>us</em>. I mean, all three.”</p><p>The shocked, wounded look on Tommy’s face fades, replaced by relief, badly-hidden.</p><p>“Oh. All right. That en’t real, then, it’s just imaginin’. No harm done.” Then he squints, looking a little confused, a little curious, and more than a little flustered. “But how… How did that even work? I mean, what did she, uh… I… How did we all, y’know. Fit with each other?”</p><p>He’s even redder than that time Elizabeth asked them about carnal pleasure. The memory makes Jonathan smile in spite of himself, even though he must be approaching the same colour at the thought of revealing what lies in the inner sanctum of his head. This sort of content is Not To Be Acknowledged, much less discussed.</p><p>“Well, er,” he mumbles, “there was, um, kissing. Rather a lot of it. Everywhere. And – and hands. Hers on me, mine on you, yours on her.”</p><p>“That does sound nice,” Tommy murmurs. His own hand travels along Jonathan’s side, over his ribs, his waist, his hip. Under Jonathan’s palms his cheeks are burning. “And then what?”</p><p>“Um. She… kissed you.”</p><p>Jonathan feels foolish to the extreme. Tommy doesn’t appear to notice. He inches forwards until he has closed the small space between their bodies completely and presses his mouth at the juncture of Jonathan’s neck and shoulder, precisely at the spot that always makes Jonathan’s toes curl.</p><p>And curl they do, along with his whole body, it seems, when Tommy kisses the skin there and bites lightly.</p><p>Heavens. Good thing they no longer have rowing practice and didn’t make it on the team. If they had, Jonathan would probably end up facing a lot of sniggering and awkward glances in the changing room about the collar of love bites Tommy is giving him along the clavicle.</p><p>“Then – <em>aah</em> – then I put my arms around her, l—like so,” Jonathan breathes, emboldened, “while she put her hands about your neck, gently – oh, I say, gently there – and, and kissed—”</p><p>It’s probably the worst prose of the kind ever, the blandest and least racy, but Tommy doesn’t seem to mind, so Jonathan keeps going for a bit, joining gesture to every word. Tommy is right, after all: this is just words, this isn’t real. What <em>is</em> real is Tommy’s warm body flush against his, rolling with him on the mattress. Tommy’s breathless laughter while they’re kissing and their legs tangle around each other’s? <em>That</em> is real. Desire soars again and hangs heavily in the air like some tantalising smell so strong one could taste it, and before Jonathan knows it they are both fully hard and grinding against one another so frantically it almost hurts.</p><p>The rest is a flurry of hands and tongues on skin, belly kisses with a funny taste, arms tight around each other, fingers getting lost in each other’s hair, until finally Tommy whimpers against Jonathan’s neck, shudders, and goes limp. Five seconds later Jonathan crashes his mouth into Tommy’s to keep from gasping loudly and adds his own heat to the already warm, sticky mess of their stomachs pressed together.</p><p>Jonathan lets out a sigh as he drifts down, eyes closed, still holding Tommy as tightly as he can.</p><p>For a blissful few seconds, his mind is in a warm haze, every single atom of him utterly relaxed. And then it dawns on him that not only the mere thought of kissing Tommy and Elizabeth (and Elizabeth and Tommy kissing) made him come off embarrassingly fast earlier, but just now, as climax built and built within him, the only thing on his mind was <em>TommyTommyElizabethTommyohGodElizabethohElizabethTommy</em>…</p><p>…and that, too, felt all too real.</p><p>He opens his eyes to Tommy, brown eyes feverishly bright two inches from him, looking thoroughly shaken.</p><p>“I – I thought of her,” he stammers. “I thought of you <em>and</em> her when… Oh Lord, this is wrong, en’t it?”</p><p>Jonathan holds him, and says nothing, because he has no idea what to say.</p>
<hr/><p>“We <em>have</em> to tell ‘er.”</p><p>“Oh, come on.”</p><p>Jonathan rolls his eyes to hide his trepidation. It’s been a few days since their little realisation in bed, and Tommy has brought up a few times the possibility of confessing to Elizabeth that they both, in fact, fancy her quite a lot. Jonathan stubbornly refuses. Just because <em>they</em> can’t help being ridiculous doesn’t mean they have to embarrass Elizabeth as well.</p><p>Besides, the timing is not the best right now. This is not a conversation to be had as they wait for a cab to go to the concert hall.</p><p>To meet with Elizabeth.</p><p>Oh, God.</p><p>“What would she <em>do</em> with that information?” Jonathan retorts when Tommy gives him a slightly exasperated look. “It’s not like she’s going to marry either of us. Besides, she’d probably have a heart attack on the spot – you know how she is about intimacy – and I wouldn’t blame the poor girl!”</p><p>Tommy’s shoulders droop.</p><p>“I know, I just… We have to be honest with her. Especially about something like that.”</p><p>“Honesty is overrated,” says Jonathan firmly. “Why put her on the spot? We’ll just have to grin and bear it, really, it’s not so hard to pretend to be friends, I’ve done that a lot –”</p><p>Tommy looks stricken. “Did you ever – with <em>me</em>?”</p><p>Jonathan replays the last sentence in his mind and immediately corrects himself.</p><p>“I mean pretend to be <em>just</em> friends, Tommy, don’t you go thinking—”</p><p>“All right,” says Tommy, but he appears subdued. “Still. We’re bein’ false, en’t we? It’s unfair to her.”</p><p>“We are <em>not</em> making her choose,” Jonathan says fervently. “What if she actually picks one of us? What happens for the other? At best she never wants to see either of us again – and that’s a bloody awful ‘best’ if you ask me!”</p><p>Being with Elizabeth without hinting how much they want to, well, <em>be</em> with her is going to be difficult to say the least, but it’s still better than any of the alternatives.</p><p>If she chooses to leave, they lose her.</p><p>If she chooses Jonathan, he loses Tommy.</p><p>If she chooses Tommy, Jonathan loses both.</p><p>The only way not to lose anything is not to risk anything. It’s the perfect opposite of everything that makes gambling interesting, but this is too important. Jonathan may gamble money he doesn’t have, sometimes, but he has no intention of gambling his heart.</p><p>Tommy shakes his head.</p><p>“I don’t agree with you, Jon.”</p><p>“Let’s agree to disagree, then,” says Jonathan just as a hansom cab finally slows down in front of them.</p><p>An early afternoon concert is not a formal ball. The dress code isn’t even black tie, only stiff shirts with everyday waistcoats, jackets, and shoes. They <em>could</em> walk to the concert hall, but the weather looks like rain and it’s much too warm for coats, so cab it is.</p><p>The auditorium is situated across the Parks, not far from Lady Margaret Hall. It’s not a long drive at all, but the silence between Jonathan and Tommy is so heavy that the first two minutes feel like two hours.</p><p>And then Tommy lets his fingers brush against Jonathan’s and, surreptitiously, takes his hand.</p><p>Jonathan has no idea whether it means “Don’t let’s fight”, or “Don’t worry”, or “Don’t be an arse”. Knowing Tommy, it could be all three at once. He’s usually the one who points out the silver lining, the one who says “This is not as bad as it looks”. Jonathan wants nothing but to send his own pessimism packing and trust Tommy and his optimistic pragmatism. But he really can see no outcome that doesn’t leave at least one of them on the side of the road feeling like he or she has just been run over by a train. Twice, for good measure.</p><p>Jonathan reluctantly lets go of Tommy’s hand just before the cab stops, and immediately misses the warmth of it.</p><p><em>I’m right, though, I know I’m right</em>, he thinks, and as Elizabeth joins them on the outside steps of the hall he clings obstinately to that certainty.</p><p>“I hear Mrs Billington will soon have two new lodgers,” she says with a smile. “Congratulations. What is it like, knowing you are going to live alone?”</p><p>The Osney flat ended up just what they were looking for, if a little farther from the heart of the town than they would have liked. It’s also a little expensive for Tommy, so Jonathan had to haggle until he was willing to let Jonathan pay sixty-five per cent of the rent instead of fifty. It’s the weirdest haggling Jonathan has ever made, and this includes the time he was trying to buy a jewellery box for his mother’s birthday in the souq in Cairo last year, and didn’t understand why the seller said the box had a demon inside. (As it turns out, ‘<em>nasnās</em>’ means both “demon” and “monkey”<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote1sym" id="sdfootnote1anc" name="sdfootnote1anc"><sup>1</sup></a>, a couple of which were painted on the box. Jonathan’s Arabic still has some gaping holes.)</p><p>“We won’t live alone,” Tommy points out. “We’ll be flatmates, Jon and I.”</p><p>“And maybe Arthur will be in the flat above,” says Jonathan with a smile he’s not really feeling. Much as he likes Arthur McAllister, he isn’t really looking forward to sharing a house with the fellow, even if the two living spaces – first and second floors – are separate. But it’s an opportunity that just cannot be missed. “Any news on that front?”</p><p>Elizabeth shakes her head. “Not for the moment. I’ll be sure to let you know. When are you moving in?”</p><p>Maybe this unrequited love thing is easier than advertised, after all. As self-conscious as Jonathan feels – in the literal sense – and as acutely aware as he is of the space Elizabeth inhabits, the volume of her that’s hers and hers alone, talking with her and Tommy still comes as naturally as ever. There is only the occasional urge to stand close to her so he can touch her hand – gloved, as always – and the fact that he both wants her to take his arm and fears it, because if she so much as brushes against his elbow he’s fairly sure the resulting spark will make his hair stand on end.</p><p>Somehow they make their way to their seats, still talking amiably, as the auditorium gradually fills with people. Elizabeth sits between Jonathan and Tommy and folds her hands on her lap, elbows tucked at her sides. She usually dresses rather conventionally, with a smart blouse and a simple skirt; her white dress at the ball was a rather spectacular exception. The day dress she’s wearing now is a little <em>chic</em> than usual, mostly soft green with black trimmings, with loose sleeves that stop at the elbow, where her long white cotton gloves take over. It brings out the dark red of her hair and the freckles across her nose. Her eyes gleam as they always do, though. She could wear just about anything, Jonathan muses, and those eyes would still look like a light is shining from behind the irises.</p><p>He manages to halt his train of thought with a firm <em>Stop that, you bloody fool, you’re getting soppier than a drowned rat</em> and focuses his attention on the curtain rising over the stage.</p><p>The first two numbers of Bizet’s <em>L’Arlésienne</em> – this suite version, anyway – are slow, austere, almost martial. It’s not exactly Jonathan’s cup of tea, and he likes it better when the orchestra fall silent and the woods rise to start the minuet. Since the audience is plunged in darkness and nobody is paying attention to him, he lets his gaze slide to his right, towards Elizabeth.</p><p>And Tommy, seated to her right. Who is visibly trying hard not to stare at her, and failing.</p><p>The look on his face twists something in Jonathan’s stomach. It adds to the gnarly tangle that settled in his guts after the ball and tightened with the realisation that he actually was – and Tommy with him – in love with Elizabeth. Sometimes it lies still and he can afford to ignore it; most of the time, though, it writhes in his abdomen, sending out pins and needles up the tips of his fingers and making his heart thump painfully.</p><p>Something has to be done. Jonathan Carnahan does <em>not</em> get heartaches. Surely he’s smarter than that, isn’t he?</p><p>On the other side of Elizabeth, Tommy is still looking like someone who’s just been gored with a spoon.</p><p><em>Would it be so awful to keep him all to yourself?</em> says a little voice in Jonathan’s mind.</p><p><em>Would it be so awful to have </em>her<em> all to yourself?</em> whispers another, at the back of his brain.</p><p>There’s a third voice, very quiet, which rarely speaks up – Jonathan doesn’t know if it’s his conscience or the voice of reason and really, by now he doesn’t give a damn what it is – that murmurs, <em>Would it be so awful if they were happy together?</em></p><p>Jonathan barks at them all to shut up and let him enjoy the bloody concert.</p><p>But as the triumphant notes of the ‘Farandole’ burst into the theatre he knows he has to admit defeat, because he’s come to a decision – or rather, a decision has been made in spite of him.</p><p>“You’re right,” he says in a low voice to Tommy at the interlude, when Elizabeth has left them to powder her nose, “we should tell her.”</p><p>Tommy nods, looking just as wretched as he feels.</p><p>What an outing. Jonathan is never going to another bally concert again.</p><p>Elizabeth returns quickly, while most of the audience are still out stretching their legs, milling in the entrance hall criticising the musicians’ performances, or queueing in front of the lavatory doors. She immediately discerns something is not quite right from the looks on their faces.</p><p>“Are you all right?” she asks as she settles in her seat again. “What’s the matter?”</p><p>Answering the first question with a minimal amount of truthfulness would take all day, so Jonathan chooses the second.</p><p>“Well, um… There’s something, ah… Something we have to tell you.”</p><p>Elizabeth’s gaze goes from one to the other, puzzled.</p><p>“All right,” she says when neither of them elaborates. “What is it?”</p><p>“It’s not easy,” says Tommy. His own gaze drops to the floor, then goes up to Jonathan’s face, almost pleading. <em>Come on</em>, it says, <em>we agreed, right?</em></p><p>Jonathan stares right back at him, fairly sure he looks just as desperate, and tries to say silently, <em>Yes, </em>we<em> did. Help me out here, old chap?</em></p><p>They won’t get very far if neither wants to take the plunge, so Jonathan takes a deep breath, tries to still his shaking hands, and starts with, “Remember when we met your friend?”</p><p>“Olivia? Of course, why?”</p><p>“She, um, intimated that you would have to choose between Tommy and I one day. Choose a… a suitor, I should say.”</p><p>Colour rises a little in Elizabeth’s cheeks.</p><p>“I think a stronger word might be more accurate. Goodness knows I love Olivia dearly, but subtlety is not her strong suit.” She frowns a little. “But that assumption would only be correct if the two of you really were, er, interested in me. Which you are not, obviously, for reasons we all…”</p><p>Her voice trails off.</p><p>“Are you… Did your families pressure you to find someone, as well?”</p><p>“Oh, no,” says Tommy, “nothin’ like that at all. But… Well. You might ‘ave a choice to make after all.”</p><p>He appears just as miserable as Jonathan is feeling. As for Elizabeth, she looks sympathetic, but utterly confused.</p><p>“But <em>why?</em>”</p><p>“Because…”</p><p>Tommy swallows, Jonathan takes a shaking breath, and they both speak at the same time.</p><p>“Because we both really, really like you.”</p><p>“Because we’re both extremely fond of you in a way that, er, we shouldn’t be.”</p><p>The words tumble out of their mouths and they trip over syllables. If Elizabeth manages to make out the meaning they will be lucky. Jonathan hopes so, anyway. Getting that sentence out was hard enough, he’d be loath to have to repeat himself.</p><p>Obviously, Elizabeth did understand. She appears nothing short of gobsmacked. Her wide eyes go from Tommy to Jonathan, back to Tommy; then she leans back into her seat and stares at the space in front of her, where the curtain hangs in the near distance. Jonathan doubts it registers at all.</p><p>“But…” she finally says in a very small voice as people start to fill the auditorium again, eager to hear the second part of the concert. “But you two… You are…”</p><p>“Yes, we are,” says Jonathan hastily just in case she’s about to say something that could be dangerous. “But we… Er. You, as well.”</p><p>He doesn’t have the <em>words</em> for this, he realises. And isn’t that a first. Jonathan prides himself on being able to talk his way out of tough spots – although, arguably, it doesn’t always work. There <em>are</em> words he could apply to their situation, but they are too large, too heavy, and he feels foolish just prodding them with his mind. He rarely even says them to Tommy when it’s just the two of them; uttering these kinds of words here, now, in this auditorium and surrounded by dozens of people, is next to impossible.</p><p>Elizabeth’s eyes have never been so large. Her mouth trembles ever so slightly.</p><p>“The two of… with me? That can’t – are you – <em>me?</em>”</p><p>It’s the way she says this. It reminds Jonathan of a sunny winter afternoon and Elizabeth looking down and saying in a small voice that she “would hardly be anyone’s first choice”. It tightens the same icy knot in his stomach that seeing Tommy’s naked anguish did.</p><p>“You don’t need to choose now,” says Jonathan just a little desperately. “Just… Let us know when you do, yes?”</p><p>“Sorry to put that kind of pressure on you,” Tommy says, his voice quiet. “But we thought it wouldn’t be fair to you if you didn’t know.”</p><p>The expression on Elizabeth’s face is a complex one. It’s a full skein of emotions, not easily untwined. Attempting to sort out the threads would take time – time they don’t have. The lights dim, the curtain rises, and the stage commands everyone’s full attention again.</p><p>This arrangement from <em>The Nutcracker</em> suite opens directly on ‘The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy’ – a light, playful theme, whimsical notes on a glockenspiel soon joined by delicate clarinets to weave a tapestry of sound, little by little. It’s music Jonathan knows well: his parents have a record of that particular suite to be played on the gramophone. He lets the darkness and the familiar melodies settle around him like a worn, comfortable blanket and purposely resists the dual temptation to look at either Elizabeth or Tommy, or think about what they’ve just confessed to her.</p><p>In fact it might be better if he didn’t think at all. So he endeavours to make his mind go blank.</p><p>The next minutes Jonathan spends focused on the orchestra like he rarely has been on anything in his life. His eyes fall on a cellist’s bow, catch the gleam of a trombone, follow the enthusiastic gestures of the conductor, whose fingers are flitting about in the air like they’re speaking a language all by themselves. After a while, he manages to relax a little, and by the time the ‘Dance of the Reed Flutes’ ends he’s actually starting to enjoy the music.</p><p>The next and final musical number is heralded by droplets of sound dripping from a harp. And then the rhythm stops and starts again, faster and more regular, as woods and strings come to support it from both sides. It worms its way into Jonathan’s chest, <em>one-two-three one-two-three one-two-three</em>…</p><p>The ‘Waltz of the Flowers’. Another bloody waltz. Of <em>course</em>.</p><p>This one is lively, elated even, and played at a speed that would probably make dancers dizzy in a ballroom. Jonathan’s nerves feel like the strings of the violins, stretched almost to breaking point and vibrating madly at each touch of a bow. Try as he may he cannot get the damn rhythm out of his head.</p><p><em>One-two-three one-two-three</em>—</p><p>Everything is screaming at him to stand up and run. To drown out the sense of impending doom he tries to give the stage his absolute, undivided attention. Which is why he almost jumps out of his skin when he feels a hand delicately pick up his.</p><p>A glance to his right is inevitable after this.</p><p>His breath stills in his lungs.</p><p>Elizabeth has taken off her gloves, both of them. They lie primly on her lap, smoothed out and folded in two. She is holding his right hand in her left, bare, and as he gives in and half turns his head to silently ask her what on earth she thinks she’s doing, she takes Tommy’s left hand and lays it on Jonathan’s. Her own right hand she rests on top and tightens around theirs.</p><p>The gesture is nothing short of monumental. Jonathan stares at their hands piled up on her lap, unable to comprehend quite what is happening. <em>It feels good, though</em>, says the part of his brain that hasn’t been thrown into complete chaos – and so it does. His hand is between Elizabeth’s and Tommy’s palms, skin on skin on skin, and the warmth seems to seep through and travel along his forearm all the way to his throat.</p><p>On the other size of Elizabeth, Tommy looks like someone stuck by lightning.</p><p>Elizabeth, sitting very straight, staring in front of her with something between defiance and quiet triumph on her face, is not blushing at all.</p><p>“What are you <em>doing?</em>” Jonathan breathes when his words come back. He doesn’t dare speak above a whisper, but still hopes his voice carries over the music.</p><p>It does. Elizabeth turns blazing eyes at Tommy, then him. Her chest and shoulders are heaving as if she’s just danced the fastest one-step of her life. Her hands, however, are perfectly steady.</p><p>“Making my choice,” she says quietly, so nobody else can hear. The next moment, a radiant smile blooms on her face like Jonathan has never seen her wear before, unadulterated joy, shining and bright.</p><p>It makes him want to smile, too, but he hastily quashes the irrational hope that rises in his chest. <em>Now see here, old boy</em>, he tries to tell himself, <em>she probably just wants to either let you down gently or keep you both as friends</em>. Whatever the gesture is intended for, she can’t possibly mean what he thinks she means. She cannot. Can she?</p><p>The finale crashes about his ears in an explosion of sound, with only a breath of silence after the last note before the auditorium erupts in applause. Elizabeth lets go of Jonathan’s and Tommy’s hands, and, while everybody claps and the lights come back, slips her gloves back on.</p><p>It has started to rain, very lightly, while they were inside. Small, scattered drops fall from a heavy grey sky to land on their hats and their shoulders when they walk out. Nobody pays it any attention. Jonathan and Tommy walk beside Elizabeth like a pair of automatons, and Jonathan only shakes himself out of his daze when they are halfway down Thorn Walk, in the middle of the Parks. There is a bench, and it’s not <em>their</em> bench, but they are in need of a place to stop and talk. So they sit – Tommy, Jonathan, Elizabeth – and the first two look expectantly at the third.</p><p>“When you said you ‘like me’, earlier,” she begins, her voice low as if they were still in a packed theatre instead of alone on a bench in the middle of a vast stretch of grass, “I need you to tell me precisely what you meant.”</p><p>Jonathan and Tommy look at each other, equally lost for words.</p><p>“Er,” says Tommy.</p><p>“Well,” says Jonathan.</p><p>Elizabeth waits, silent. She looks pale, her features slightly pinched.</p><p>Tommy draws in a shaking breath.</p><p>“I want to hold your hand,” he says finally, voice trembling a little. Jonathan can’t blame him. From his own admission Tommy had never been in love with anyone before. He and Jonathan have that in common. What they discovered had grown between the two of them unbeknownst to either has been just as much of a surprise for one as it has been for the other, and the startling realisation that they both also loved a third party even more so. “I want to hold your hand and – and kiss your arm. I want to watch you kiss Jon. I want the three of us to go punting on the river. I want to see what you look like in the mornin’ with the sun in your hair.”</p><p>There he stops, his face bright pink. Jonathan can relate. It’s more or less what he had in mind, put into actual words that managed to leave his mouth. Jonathan’s are still bunched up in his throat, and when Elizabeth turns her eyes on him, all he can do is nod and mumble, “Everything. Everything he said.”</p><p>And then some. He wants to fall asleep against her skin, to curl up between her and Tommy as they read a book, to unpin her hair and brush it off her bare shoulder for Tommy to kiss. All impossible things.</p><p>Jonathan is accustomed to desire. He’s intimately familiar with what it feels like. Lately he’s got used to love, as well. No matter how much he’s heard that love can only exist between a man and a woman, he now knows first-hand how untrue that is.</p><p>Love between two men and a woman sounds not only unprecedented, but unthinkable. But what if this is just another incorrect ‘truth universally acknowledged’?</p><p>The troubled look on Elizabeth’s face fades, slowly replaced by a brilliant smile not unlike the one she gave earlier, in the auditorium, when she held Jonathan’s and Tommy’s hands in hers. Her shoulders relax, although her chest is heaving.</p><p>“Good,” she says in a voice a little too carefully even, still smiling. “Then it would appear we all want exactly the same thing.”</p><p>That last waltz must have dogged Jonathan’s steps, because the rhythm of it seems to take the place normally occupied by his brain, echo around his empty skull, and throb against his ears, <em>one-two-three one-two-three</em>… Only now it’s getting slower, steadier, until the full weight of Elizabeth’s last sentence registers. Like the warmth of Tommy right next to him even as they’re slowly getting soaked by the rain, like the spot on his left knee where Jonathan’s and Elizabeth’s legs touch, just a little, making him shiver.</p><p>One, two…<em> three?</em></p><p>On instinct, Jonathan takes a look around. He needs to make sure nobody else heard the frankly fantastic statement Elizabeth just issued. The light rain is driving the last stragglers from the Parks, sending them running for cabs or the shelter of buildings. It’s not the icy drizzle which put a premature end to the dancing lesson back in March, but rather a welcome break in the hot weather they’ve been having. Neither Tommy nor Elizabeth appears in any hurry to run for cover, for all that the water is starting to make one’s trousers cling to his thighs and the other sometimes has to blink raindrops from her lashes.</p><p>When he’s certain they’re safe, Jonathan exchanges a look with Tommy, then turns to Elizabeth.</p><p>Very gently, he brings his hand up to her cheek and brushes her cheekbone with his thumb. His mind flashes back to how Tommy looked in the Oxford Arms, seconds before he kissed him, a mixture of startled and just a little bit hopeful. The same hope is blazing in Elizabeth’s eyes as she leans forwards ever so slightly.</p><p>Closing the gap between them is the easiest thing in the world.</p><p>Her lips are warm, soft, and taste of summer rain. Jonathan can feel her shiver a little as his palm travels down her cheek to cup her jaw, fingers catching a few curls of hair the rain has plastered on her face. Perhaps he’s shivering, too, he’s not sure. Right now there is only a few things he’s sure of: the rain, his heart thumping painfully in his chest, the warmth of Elizabeth’s mouth and of Tommy’s body right at his side… And the small sigh that escapes from Elizabeth’s lips and into his own.</p><p>It’s the sigh that makes him break the kiss. He knows where this sound comes from. It’s the sort of sigh he’s let out himself when things were progressing in a direction that had his complete and entire satisfaction. This sigh means abandon and anticipation, but here and now, it also spells ‘danger’. People may have gone away, but they still are in the open. Being caught kissing Elizabeth might not get them both thrown in jail like being caught kissing Tommy would, but the consequences would still be dire.</p><p>If they really are to check they all are on the same page, they’re going to have to be more discreet.</p><p>When he reluctantly pulls away and opens his eyes, Elizabeth is flushed, breathing hard. Her eyes are burning when she looks for Tommy, as though drawn by a magnet.</p><p>Tommy leans across Jonathan and asks with an uneasy glance around, “Do you want to continue this conversation somewhere a little more… private?”</p><p>“I would very much like that,” says Elizabeth in a breathless voice that contrasts with the formality of her words.</p><p>The Cricket Pavilion is barely fifty yards away. Before they know it they end up in the familiar secluded spot under and behind the shelter of trees. The rain is sparser there, although bigger, fatter drops drip down from the leaves above them sometimes.</p><p>For a moment they all stand next to each other awkwardly, wondering what comes next. Then two things happen, almost simultaneous: Elizabeth takes a step towards Tommy, and Tommy wraps his arms around her and draws her close.</p><p>It’s an embrace, not a kiss, but it looks – it feels – just as intimate. Elizabeth obviously didn’t expect this. She makes a small sound of surprise before she lets her eyelids fall and relaxes in Tommy’s arms with a sigh, much like the one she gave earlier. Then, and only then does Tommy bring his hand to the back of her neck very gently and tilt his head down a little –</p><p>It’s Elizabeth who kisses him, passionately, a little desperately even. Tommy answers with delight and matching enthusiasm. One arm is wrapped around her; with his other hand he’s stroking her back, slowly, up and down and up again. For a second they make for such an intimate tableau that Jonathan is almost tempted to slip away and leave them to it – but then two hands stop their mapping of each other’s bodies and are extended towards him, one gloved, one bare.</p><p>Jonathan takes those hands, a deep breath, and what feels like a plunge.</p><p>Holding Elizabeth while being held by Tommy felt <em>right</em> in ways he had no idea how to handle. Holding both of them tightly, nuzzling Elizabeth’s neck, making her giggle and moan in turns against Tommy’s lips bypasses ‘right’ and shoots straight into ‘blissful’. His whole being is a strange mix of fireworks going off left and right and utter peace. As for the little voices in his head, whatever they are, they have merged into a single entity that points wildly and screams <em>See!? This is Allowed, this is Very Good, this is worth </em>everything—</p><p>And then Tommy kisses him while Elizabeth’s arm slips around his waist, and Jonathan’s mind stops working altogether.</p><p>After a while – a few minutes, or possibly a few days – they come up for air, still wrapped around one another, and let out the same dazed laugh. Their clothes are getting soaked, their hair dripping, but the last thing Jonathan wants to do is let go. The rain isn’t actually unpleasant and his lovers’ arms are warm.</p><p>Well. They aren’t ‘lovers’, technically. But Jonathan has enough discernment to admit that he very much wants the term to apply to all three of them.</p><p>There is wonder on Elizabeth’s face when he rubs water from his eyelashes and opens his eyes.</p><p>“I never thought – oh, Heavens,” she stammers, “I think I want to keep kissing you both until the end of days.”</p><p>“Likewise,” murmurs Tommy, brushing his lips against her neck while Jonathan kisses her temple. This attack on both fronts makes her squirm a little and press even closer to them. The edge of her corset digs a little into Jonathan’s chest along with the rest of her, much softer and warmer, like what he can feel of Tommy’s waist under the layers of flannel and cotton. The sensation sends his pulse racing. He very much wants to keep kissing them until the end of days, as well, and more if they let him. However…</p><p>“So,” he mumbles into Elizabeth’s curly hair, made even frizzier by the rain, “now what?”</p><p>The question makes Tommy’s face fall, but Elizabeth still looks radiant.</p><p>“I don’t know,” she says. “But we <em>will</em> figure this out.” She brings up her hand to Jonathan’s cheek, as though to make sure he’s real, and leaves the other arm tightly around Tommy. Her glove is sodden, like the rest of their clothes, but the hand he can feel inside is warm. “In the meantime, Mr Carnahan,” she adds, her tone gently playful, “I believe you still owe me a waltz.”</p><p>Tommy laughs.</p><p>“That’s right, I forgot – where did you disappear to, that time? I didn’t see you anywhere for a while. Thought you’d forgotten your turn.”</p><p>“Oh, well – I did, sort of.” Jonathan lays a hand on her elbow and moves it up gently until his fingers are just past her glove and under the loose fabric of her sleeve. Skin brushes against skin, and they both shiver. That this contact is possible, that they both want to and <em>can</em> do this ties Jonathan’s brain into knots. He has to gather his wits before he explains, “You were dancing together and I… I came to the conclusion that I… Um.” <em>That I wanted to kiss you both senseless?</em> “That I wanted <em>us</em> to dance. All three of us. And I, er… panicked a little.”</p><p>To his relief, Tommy nods, and Elizabeth doesn’t laugh. She inches closer to him, pulling Tommy with her, and draws herself up to kiss him. Instinctively Jonathan lowers his head a little to meet her halfway. After over six months of exclusively kissing someone his own height he’s almost forgotten the old reflexes. Almost.</p><p>Elizabeth’s kiss is sweet with an aftertaste of yearning. Her breath is trembling slightly when she pulls away, as is her palm against his cheek.</p><p>“So did I, to be honest,” she murmurs. “When… What I… My God, I was so ashamed.”</p><p>“Because you liked us both?” Tommy asks gently. Elizabeth goes pink.</p><p>“Yes, of course, but also because… Well, the two of you being involved, and so very fond of each other, I – I never wanted to be That Woman.”</p><p>The capital letters are audible in her voice. The sentence draws an unexpected smile out of Jonathan. One of his previous dance partners once stated outright that two chaps being in love was impossible for a number of reasons. He’d been fun to dance with, but nothing more, so Jonathan hadn’t given the matter much thought until Tommy came along. The delicate – and accurate – phrasing Elizabeth uses goes a long way in showing she clearly disagrees with that statement.</p><p>“And you really… You really feel the same way about the both of us?” asks Jonathan, unable to keep the wonder out of his voice.</p><p>“I really do. The last few minutes only confirmed that feeling.” Elizabeth smiles. “Do the two of you really feel that way about me, as well?”</p><p>“Absolutely,” says Tommy, just as Jonathan nods fervently and says “<em>Yes</em>.”</p><p>There is still a trace of astonishment to Elizabeth’s beaming smile, like she can’t quite believe anyone would be interested in her at all. When she lays her head into the crook of Tommy’s neck, eyes still wide open, a soft sound of contentment escapes her.</p><p>Looks like lightning <em>can</em> strike the same place three times, after all.</p><p>Jonathan kisses Tommy and slips his arm around Elizabeth, because he can, and also because he knows it can’t last. Much as he longs to keep holding the two of them – preferably behind the safety of a locked door – only he and Tommy can afford a measure of privacy, in their respective rooms. This place may be secluded, the Parks devoid of people for now, but if they are spotted with their mouths and their hands all over each other it’s either prison, disgrace, or both.</p><p>If things are to be different from what they have been so far – strolls around Oxford, tea at the Cup and Chaucer, and so on – he has no idea how they’re going to, as Elizabeth said, “figure this out”. But in the meantime…</p><p>“I believe you said something about a waltz, Lizzie,” he says with his cheekiest smile and a half-bow.</p><p>Elizabeth takes his hand, her eyes twinkling.</p><p>“So I did, Mr Carnahan. Shall we?”</p><p>Jonathan’s hand finds her waist, her hand rests on his shoulder, and off they go with only Tommy’s laughter and the sound of the rain as musical accompaniment.</p><p>They must look ridiculous, and maybe Jonathan should feel silly, with his waterlogged shoes splattered with mud, his hair sticking out in curly twists where the rain hasn’t plastered it on his skull, and his grin he knows must be a mile wide. But he can’t help it. While just an hour ago he was walking on embers barefoot, nerves exposed, keenly aware of Elizabeth’s space and very careful not to come too close, now that space has extended to him. They have their own little hole in the world right now, Elizabeth, Tommy and him. What lies between them as they dance is no longer a chasm, but a bridge either can cross anytime.</p><p>He and Elizabeth twirl as earnestly as though they were still in that ballroom a few days ago, only they’re both laughing and dancing much too close to each other. The rhythm Jonathan had come close to hating is resonating from his stomach to the tips of his fingers, <em>one-two-three one-two-three one-two-three</em>, and it feels easy and natural and <em>good</em>. At some point Tommy cuts in to dance with <em>him</em>, and a little later Jonathan catches Elizabeth’s hand, places Tommy’s in it, and off they go.</p><p>Despite the rain weighing down their clothes, dripping into their mouths and clinging to their eyelashes, and despite the utter uncertainty the future holds, they all keep dancing until the clouds disperse and the sun starts to sink behind the trees.</p>
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  <p class="sdfootnote"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote1anc" id="sdfootnote1sym" name="sdfootnote1sym">1</a>(<span>نَسْنَاس or <span>نِسْنَاس) – <em>nasnās</em> or <em>nisnās</em>, according to the Wiktionary, does mean either a Nasnas (a folklore monster that looks like half a human being), a demon, or a monkey.</span></span></p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Only one chapter left, BUT! I promise they’ll figure it out ;o)</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>Mrs Billington’s lodgers – “Hang tradition” – The joys and surprises of discovery – Bodies and souls laid bare – Three lovers, dancing</i><br/>(NSFW)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jonathan and Tommy say goodbye to their rooms a week later. Moving into the Osney flat didn’t take them long since they don’t own any furniture. They did have to find boxes for their books, clothes, stationary, and assorted knick-knacks, and had to rent a cart to carry them for the not-quite mile between their college and their new home on Mill Street, but that’s it.</p><p>They do find the time to celebrate having passed their first year – Tommy’s marks flew high above average, and Jonathan somehow managed not to fail a single exam – by having tea at the Cup and Chaucer with Elizabeth. Since it’s a public space, they sit at a safe distance from one another. Elizabeth, as always, is the soul of propriety, but as she looks at the two of them something gleams in her eyes that only someone who knows her well can spot.</p><p>“So you’re friends with Elizabeth and Arthur McAllister, are you?” asks Mrs Billington, the landlady, the first time Jonathan and Tommy go see the flat. “Good children, I’ve known them since they were yea high. I hope you prove worthy of their recommendations.”</p><p>The little house has three floors: the ground floor (with the kitchen and adjoining pantry, the scullery, and a back garden), the first floor (where Jonathan and Tommy will each have a bedroom and share a living room and a little bathroom), and the second floor, practically an attic, which consists of smaller living quarters and a large lumber room<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote1sym" id="sdfootnote1anc" name="sdfootnote1anc"><sup>1</sup></a>. Presumably, this is Arthur’s future abode. Mrs Billington only shows them the first two floors.</p><p>“You’ll have to keep the flat clean yourselves, and either do your own laundry or send for it. I’m next door if there’s a problem, but remember I’m the landlady, not the housekeeper. If you need help I can spare a maid twice every month. I know some of the young gentlemen I’ve had seemed unfamiliar with the concept of living without a household staff to pick up after them, but if you want this flat you’ll have to acquaint yourselves with a broom and dustpan.”</p><p>Jonathan, who only has a passing familiarity with the objects in question, raises an eyebrow, but Tommy looks serene.</p><p>“I’ve always picked up after myself, ma’am. It’ll be no trouble at all.”</p><p>The bedrooms aren’t very spacious but they each have things like a washstand, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, and slightly larger beds than what they had in halls; the living room is cosy, airy, and has two desks, plus plenty of shelf space for books. This is a flat that has seen nothing but students for decades, and looks it. Acclimatising to it – the somewhat worn settee and armchair in front of the fireplace, the gas mantles here and there, even the old-fashioned wallpaper – will be no trouble at all.</p><p>Acclimatising to things like chores and having to cook if one wants to eat is another thing entirely. At least they have time to get used to it before term starts again next October.</p><p>There <em>are</em> growing pains at first. Jonathan is used to doing only a modicum of house chores – viz, keeping his own room free enough of clutter that he can walk from one wall to the other without stepping on anything – but once they’ve unpacked, it appears they need to do a <em>lot</em> of things to just live. Cooking takes time; washing dishes takes time; so does lighting the gas mantles when they need light. All in all they seem to spend more time in the kitchen or the scullery than in their living room.</p><p>At least they have the house all to themselves until Arthur takes up residence upstairs. Jonathan’s and Tommy’s first night in their own flat is spent in Tommy’s bed getting their fill of each other, laughing, gasping, shouting, until they collapse just before dawn, sated and exhausted like they’ve never been before.</p><p>Jonathan’s last thought before he falls asleep, both Tommy’s body and the bedsheets tangled around him, is the fervent wish that Arthur find lodgings elsewhere. He <em>really</em> doesn’t want to go back to having to hide how happy Tommy makes him, especially in what should be the privacy of a bedroom.</p>
<hr/><p>One late afternoon, three days after the move, Jonathan and Tommy are still discussing where to put which books when someone knocks on the door. When they open it, they find their landlady dragging a steamer trunk across the landing.</p><p>“Gentlemen,” she says, “you have a new neighbour. I trust you will behave yourselves. And if you could come and give us a hand, it would be most appreciated.”</p><p><em>Must be Arthur, then</em>, Jonathan thinks, his heart sinking, and then Mrs Billington moves aside and reveals… Elizabeth.</p><p>Elizabeth who stands very straight, a suitcase in hand, Elizabeth who blushes a little but smiles as she says, “Hello, Mr Ferguson. Mr Carnahan. I hope you’ll find me a suitable housemate.”</p><p>Once Jonathan and Tommy pick up their jaws from the floor, they each grab one end of the trunk and trudge up the stairs. One glance from Mrs Billington when she hands Elizabeth the key tells them they aren’t welcome in the actual flat, and they go back down, heads still reeling from the surprise.</p><p>Another rap at the door makes them jump to their feet. When they open it, Mrs Billington gives them a penetrating look.</p><p>“I have it on good authority that you are Good Eggs,” she says, and Jonathan can hear the capital letters falling on each of the two words, “so I will make this brief. This young lady is under my protection. If I hear so much as a peep about you trying to come into her room uninvited, making unwanted advances to her, or inconveniencing her in any way, you will be out of lodgings before you can say knife. Is that clear?”</p><p>“Yes’m,” says Tommy, while Jonathan, taken aback, stammers, “Q—quite clear.”</p><p>This seems to satisfy their formidable landlady, who nods curtly, wishes them a good evening, and departs.</p><p>Two minutes after she’s gone, they hear a third knock on the door, quieter, and open it wide to let Elizabeth in.</p><p>They take the settee – Tommy, Elizabeth, Jonathan – and she gives a small smile, like her very presence in their flat isn’t a bally miracle.</p><p>“Arthur got the flat on Thames Street after all,” she explains, “and I struck a deal, of sorts, with my parents. They agreed to my living on my own for a while, I agreed to look for a suitor seriously. They gave me three years.”</p><p>“Three years?” Tommy repeats, looking appalled. “That’s – only three years, and then you <em>have</em> to get married with whomever your parents pick?”</p><p>Elizabeth nods soberly.</p><p>“The way things stood, I was lucky to get as long. But they trust Mrs Billington, and Arthur vouched for you. He said that the two of you may act as my chaperones, if you are amenable.”</p><p>“Isn’t a chaperone’s role to, er…” Jonathan hesitates. “To ward off any improper behaviour?”</p><p>“Traditionally, yes.” Elizabeth looks down at her hands, laced together in her lap, the only outward sign of how nervous she is. Then she looks up, takes a deep breath, and says, “Hang tradition.”</p><p>Jonathan’s and Tommy’s jaws drop for the second time in ten minutes.</p><p>Elizabeth opens her mouth, closes it. When she opens it again her tone is a mix of effort and determination.</p><p>“I used to think living in Somerville with my classmates was the closest I could ever get to freedom,” she explains, still gripping her own fingers. She isn’t wearing gloves; her knuckles are white. “Much as I appreciate their company, I would like to try living somewhere I wouldn’t be watched all the time. I want to be able to cook my own food, not worry about being gated if I stay out a little too long, or wear a tea gown and no corset if I’m staying inside. And furthermore,” she adds with an unusual glittering in her eyes, “I would like to be able to entertain whom I want, when I want, and the way I want, without having to answer to anyone.”</p><p>Jonathan’s parents’ housekeeper Mrs Pemberton would point out severely that Elizabeth is not supposed to. Mrs Billington would probably agree.</p><p>What Elizabeth does next would most likely give them both the vapours. She unlocks her fingers, rests one trembling hand on Tommy’s knee. The other one she lays on Jonathan’s cheek, tenderly. Her palm is warm.</p><p>“And I would like to start now.”</p><p>She was very pink before; she turns crimson.</p><p>“I mean, if it’s all right with you.”</p><p>Tommy, rather red himself, puts his hand on hers, swallows, and asks, “Just – just to be clear, what do you want to <em>do</em>?”</p><p>Elizabeth bites her lip and appears to think for a few seconds.</p><p>“I want…” She takes a shaking breath. “I want everything you said you did. I want to touch you. To – to hold you.” Her fingers play with the hair on Jonathan’s temple, ruffling it a little, and she smiles. “I want to see what you look like in the morning with sunlight in your hair, too. Mostly I want the three of us to kiss like we couldn’t the other day. I’ve wanted it so very badly for months.”</p><p>Her face is very close now, so close it almost makes Jonathan go cross-eyed. At some point his heart has leapt up and settled in the hollow of his throat, where it’s pounding wildly. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is awfully dry.</p><p>“Months?”</p><p>“Months,” murmurs Elizabeth, and she leans just a bit and kisses him.</p><p>Her body, when he puts his arms around her, is warm and full. He can feel her corset beneath the cotton of her shirt, the stays and the coutil<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="#sdfootnote2sym" id="sdfootnote2anc" name="sdfootnote2anc"><sup>2</sup></a> that hugs her curves. Her hip is jammed against his, her left ankle hooked around his right. Their knees bump. It should feel awkward. It feels like heaven.</p><p>Elizabeth moans against his lips, making Jonathan open his eyes. The reason for it turns out to be Tommy tracing kisses along her neck and under her jaw. The sight sends desire coursing through Jonathan’s veins like fire. Convention says he should be jealous; but of <em>whom</em>, he has no idea. So he hastily lets go of the last remnants of sanity and gives himself completely to the moment.</p><p>And what a moment!</p><p>Elizabeth is kissing him with everything she has while Tommy is holding her from behind and caressing her over her clothes, one hand stroking Jonathan’s thigh. When she comes up for air they’re both panting, hard, and Tommy doesn’t appear very far behind. The heat between the three of them is such that Jonathan’s entire body feels like it’s throbbing. Instinctively he starts fiddling with his tie pin and the buttons of his collar. As much as he’s dying to open <em>her</em> shirt, he doesn’t know how she might react.</p><p>And then Elizabeth stops cold. Consequently, so do Tommy and Jonathan.</p><p>“What—what’s wrong?” Tommy asks between gulping breaths.</p><p>The look on Elizabeth’s face is an odd one, somewhere between startled and curious.</p><p>“What, um – oh goodness, I’m so sorry – what is <em>that</em>?”</p><p>She shifts a little against Tommy, who makes a strangled noise. For once he is blushing several shades harder than she is, and it dawns on Jonathan exactly what she’s referring to.</p><p>Oh, dear.</p><p>Suddenly his cheeks are flaming, too.</p><p>“Oh, er… That’s…”</p><p>Was he really that mortified a few months ago when she asked them about what pleasure does to someone? It feels ten times worse now.</p><p>“That’s… I guess you could say it’s one of the differences between men and women,” he finishes lamely, because the way Tommy looks, he’s in no shape to reply. Elizabeth’s eyes go a little round.</p><p>“Oh. <em>Oh</em>. But… Well, I once saw the maid change my baby nephew’s diaper and he did have a – but this is nothing like – is it supposed to be quite so hard?” she stammers.</p><p>Her curiosity and her shock are only natural; in another situation Jonathan would probably find it funny, but the last thing he wants to do is laugh. He wants her, rather desperately in fact, just like he wants Tommy. But this is a stark reminder that there are a lot of things she’s unaware of, and probably quite a lot of other things she – understandably – wouldn’t want anything to do with.</p><p>Fortunately for him, Tommy seems to be recovering. He takes her hand, palm to palm, and with his other hand gently caresses her forearm.</p><p>“It happens to a man when he feels good,” he says softly, “the way we’re feelin’ now. What do <em>you</em> feel?”</p><p>Elizabeth licks her lips with the tip of her tongue, looking thoughtful.</p><p>“Pressure,” she says finally. “Everywhere, but mostly… well. Down there. I feel like I could burst if I don’t hold you in my arms as tightly as I can, right now. And…” She goes red again. “I don’t know if I should undress you, if it’s… allowed. But I know I want to <em>feel</em> you.”</p><p>She lets her head fall back until her face is tucked against Tommy’s neck, as if to hide. Jonathan tries to adjust his position into something less awkward and lets his fingers run on her waist, the curve of her hip, hoping she feels it through her corset and the layers of clothes.</p><p>“Why wouldn’t it be ‘allowed’?” he asks, before he corrects himself. “I mean, besides the obvious – there’s three of us, we’re not married, and so on. Let’s just… set that aside for the moment.”</p><p>“Um.” Elizabeth settles in Tommy’s arms until she’s half on top of him and half squeezed between him and the backrest of the settee. As she strokes his bare forearms where he’s rolled up his sleeves they both give a shiver that resonates through Jonathan. “You know I have… precious little experience. It must be painfully obvious anyway. I don’t know what I want, to be quite honest, but I know what I <em>don’t</em> want, and that…”</p><p>She falls silent, bites her lip again.</p><p>“I was told that babies happen when a man and a woman take off their clothes. Now, I know there’s probably a lot more to it than that, but I don’t…”</p><p>Another pause.</p><p>“I do want you,” she finishes, “and I want this. With all my heart I do. But I’m scared.”</p><p>Her voice shakes a little on the last word. Tommy kisses the side of her head and tightens his arms around her.</p><p>“You don’t ‘ave to undress if you don’t want to. Kissing is nice, too.”</p><p>“It is,” she admits with a smile. “But I… I want more. There has to be things we <em>can</em> do to each other, to… to feel good, without running that risk.”</p><p>Jonathan can’t help a smile. While he has never been with a woman in the way he knows can result in children, he does have some experience in the sort of caresses that can bring a girl to her peak. Not <em>that</em> much, but still.</p><p>“There are,” he says with real self-confidence for once. The other two look up at him curiously. “Look, babies don’t happen when a man and a woman take off their clothes, they happen when a man puts his, um, intimate, er… thingy into a woman’s intimate whatsit.”</p><p>“<em>Into</em> –” Elizabeth blinks, frowns. “Are you sure?”</p><p>“Of course I’m sure. Ever seen a couple of dogs going at it? When I was little I got upset once because I thought two of our dogs were fighting and were about to kill each other. My father explained what they were doing with a long and very boring speech.”</p><p>Tommy’s laugh makes Elizabeth jump.</p><p>“How’d he managed to make <em>that</em> boring?”</p><p>“Well, he talked about bees, and flowers, and pollen, and got very techn—but that’s not important, now, is it?”</p><p>He shuffles closer, mindful of Tommy’s legs and Elizabeth’s hips, and curls his fingers against her cheek. The skin there is soft, not quite as hot as the tangle of bodies he can feel under his own, but close. It’s a warm evening, and being wrapped around each other on the settee has done nothing to cool them off. Some of her hair have escaped from her plait and stuck to her neck with perspiration; he picks the frizzy tendrils of hair one by one, still marvelling at the fact that he <em>can</em>.</p><p>His remark made Elizabeth relax a little and smile. There’s a yearning to the way she leans into his touch, like one might inch closer to a fire on a cold night. Things are a lot less tense in his trousers – as is the case with Tommy, he suspects – but that’s all right. They have all the time in the world now; they can take it slow.</p><p>“No thingy in my whatsit, then?” she asks softly. He shakes his head.</p><p>“None whatsoever. But,” he adds, shifting a little again to try – in vain – to find a better position, “I was thinking we might relocate elsewhere. I don’t know about you, but I could be more comfortable.”</p><p>“<em>I’m</em> not complainin’,” Tommy quips, making Elizabeth go pink and chuckle. The next second, though, he rolls his head on the armrest and winces. “Actually, yeah, that might be a good idea. This en’t the best pillow.”</p><p>Elizabeth kisses his neck and says softly, “I know where to find a better one.”</p><p>They hardly bother putting their clothes in order; this is their home, nobody is there to look and pass judgement. Tommy’s shirt-tails are half hanging out of his trousers, Elizabeth’s shirt is rumpled, and Jonathan is fairly sure his tie pin has disappeared into the depths of the settee. He’s going to have to find it again soon if they don’t want a nasty surprise the next time someone sits there.</p><p>When they walk out of the flat, Jonathan makes to go downstairs to lock the front door, out of habit. Elizabeth holds him back and points out she already turned the key in the lock.</p><p>“As far as everyone else is concerned,” she says as they follow her up the stairs to her own flat, “we are not entertaining anyone tonight.”</p><p>“Except one another,” Jonathan can’t help but quip. Tommy shakes his head with a laugh and Elizabeth flushes but smiles.</p><p>Her flat, as it turns out, is a glorified bedroom. It’s about the size of their living room on the first floor, has bookshelves and wardrobes and two windows, and a small round table; but the windows are smaller, the ceiling slopes down on the sides, and there is a large bed in the corner, neatly made. Everything is spic and span, orderly, slightly impersonal, in sharp contrast with their own flat, which they managed to clutter in less than three days. Elizabeth didn’t take the time to unpack or even open her trunk before she joined them downstairs.</p><p>It suddenly occurs to Jonathan that this is the first time he’s found himself in a girl’s bedroom. (Evy’s doesn’t count, naturally.) Then the ridiculousness of the thought hits him, because <em>everything</em> about this situation is a first. He has been in Tommy’s room plenty of times, and they have been in his own room much more often. They have kissed each other, they have undressed each other, they have made love to each other. No matter how taboo these things are between two men, that what they do together is forbidden by the law, there was an easiness to the way they fell together. Society encourages boys to spend time with other boys anyway – in school, in clubs, in everything. Being alone with Elizabeth and Tommy in her room has something daunting about it, especially given the context.</p><p>And then he feels Tommy’s hands circle his waist and a warm kiss under his jaw, and everything else fades into the background. Light stubble scrapes his skin a little. The pleased noise he lets out makes Elizabeth look at him, mouth slightly open.</p><p>“My goodness,” she says, eyes bright, lips stretching in a smile, “Tom was right. You do get noisy when you’re happy.”</p><p>“This is nothin’,” mumbles Tommy against his skin. He presses his front against Jonathan’s back, hands running over his body, and this is not <em>fair</em>, come on. As much as Jonathan loves to be held, he also loves to hold. “You should hear ‘im when we really get going. It’s fantastic.”</p><p>“You do realise I am standing right here,” says Jonathan in a voice he hopes doesn’t come out as a squeak, but does anyway. It doesn’t look like it’ll get any better soon, because Elizabeth comes up to stand right in front of him and starts to work on the buttons of his waistcoat.</p><p>“Believe me,” she says, and the playfulness in her smile makes his mouth desert-dry again, “I very much do. And so does our mutual friend, I surmise.”</p><p>The mutual friend hums in agreement and shifts a little against him. Well then. Things are definitely Taking an Interest at Jonathan’s back. So is the front of Jonathan, for that matter.</p><p>Elizabeth takes her time undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, then his shirt. She has a look of deep concentration on her face even as a blush spreads across her nose and cheeks. As high-strung as Jonathan is right now, something softens inside him. She is so clearly determined to Do This Right, even though she’s still unsure how to proceed. It’s very endearing, and it makes him resolve to Do This Right, as well.</p><p>Of course, this is where the next thing she says makes his brain trip up.</p><p>“When you say ‘really get going’ –” her voice is a whisper, her fingers brush against the bare skin of his stomach, and oh God, between this and Tommy’s hands and mouth on him it’s like they’re <em>trying</em> to kill him “– what do you mean, exactly?”</p><p>Jonathan can swear he can feel Tommy grin against his neck. At some point either Tommy or Elizabeth removed his collar, which means that sweet spot at the juncture of his neck and shoulder is exposed and vulnerable.</p><p>“Well,” murmurs Tommy, “sometimes the kisses –” which he demonstrates “– and the caresses –” Jonathan downright moans “– en’t enough, so we, uh… make love to each other in a different way. And when I’m inside him… oh, Lord… it feels so…”</p><p>Elizabeth’s fingers still on the last button. When Jonathan opens his eyes, breathing hard, she looks a little taken aback.</p><p>“But how do you – I mean, you don’t have – oh. Ooh.” She winces a little and asks in a small voice, “But doesn’t it hurt?”</p><p>“Not when we do it right,” Jonathan manages to get out. He hardly recognises his own voice. Whether it’s being embraced by the two people he wants most in the world, or being the centre of so much attention of this very unique sort, or even just the sheer anticipation, he is struggling to keep afloat. His head is spinning like never before.</p><p>Thankfully Elizabeth doesn’t comment further, especially on the illegality of the deed. From what he knows of her, her reactions, he can guess she doesn’t really see it as immoral, but it <em>is</em> unlawful. If he and Tommy were to get caught this way, it would mean prison for life; just eighty years ago, they would have been hanged. <em>But</em>, whispers a small part of his brain that is still functioning even as he feels Tommy’s fingers fumble with the buttons of his trousers, <em>it hurts no-one and it feels so very good</em>.</p><p>Elizabeth lays the tips of her fingers just under his collarbone, then her palm, until her whole hand is splayed on his chest under his shirt, making him shiver harder than Tommy did the first time he touched his bare skin.</p><p>“You’re so warm,” she says with something like wonder in her voice. Her breath catches. She’s not panting half as hard as he is – doesn’t even come close – but there is a definite shortness of breath.</p><p>Jonathan gulps, tries to calm his heart a little, and kisses her. When their lips part, they stay nose to nose with each other, breaths mingled, until he gives her a grin she returns. She takes his hand (it shouldn’t be as erotic as it feels, but dear God he has <em>longed</em> to hold her hand, palm to palm, skin to skin, fingers laced together), lifts it, and lays it on her upper chest, on the soft swell of her right breast, at the precise spot where she’s just touched him.</p><p>The buttons of her blouse are just within reach of the tips of his fingers.</p><p>Oh, how her heart is racing under his palm.</p><p>Jonathan takes a deep, deep breath – not an easy task when Tommy has finished unbuttoning his flies and slipped his hand between trousers and drawers – and asks gently, “May I?”</p><p>Elizabeth, bright red to the hairline, her eyes blazing and very, very dark, answers in a slightly trembling voice, “You may.”</p><p>These are the hardest buttons Jonathan has ever tried to undo. Or perhaps it’s simply due to the fact that he is shivering from head to toe, and his fingers along with the rest of him.</p><p>She’s wearing a corset cover under her blouse. Her blush goes all the way down to the swell of her breasts, he finds, and so do her freckles. On impulse, he bends to kiss her there; she gives a gasp and her hands slip under his shirt over his shoulders, his back, to draw him closer. Tommy adds his own hands, and before Jonathan knows it he has lost both shirt and waistcoat somehow. He does not miss them.</p><p>Tommy must have unclipped his braces at some point. This has two consequences: Jonathan’s shirt lies somewhere on the floor instead of hanging at his waist, and his trousers drop to the floor. This leaves him in his drawers, wedged between two still mostly-clothed people, and the sudden secret thrill combined with the flash of vulnerability is quite intriguing.</p><p>There is a low sound of contentment behind him. He feels Tommy move, a long, slow grinding motion, and suddenly there are much too many layers between them.</p><p>“Right,” says Jonathan when he has enough breath in his lungs, “I think we – <em>ah</em> – we need to make this a little more balanced. Elizabeth? Would you help me divest Mr Ferguson of his clothes, please?”</p><p>He means to call her ‘Lizzie’, as always, but suddenly it doesn’t seem to fit. She had her hands flat on his sides, just under the ribs; when she lets go Jonathan is almost surprised that they didn’t leave burns in the shape of handprints.</p><p>The use of her full name makes her smile.</p><p>“With pleasure.”</p><p>They switch: Elizabeth goes to Tommy’s back, puts her arms around him, and lays her cheek between his shoulder blades, while Jonathan – after kicking off his trousers – makes short work of Tommy’s buttons. When both shirt and waistcoat are hanging open, Jonathan catches Elizabeth’s eyes over Tommy’s shoulder and grins.</p><p>“Since we touched upon the subject of noises, earlier,” he says, wagging his eyebrows to make her laugh, “I should like to point out that this very fine chap here is no slouch at being vocal, either. Case in point.”</p><p>He takes Tommy’s left nipple in his mouth, plays a little with his tongue, and adds just the hint of teeth. Tommy’s back arches in Elizabeth’s arms, and Jonathan can practically <em>see</em> the gasp almost leave his throat right before he clamps a hand on his mouth to keep it there.</p><p>Old habits die hard.</p><p>Jonathan stands up straight and looks at him.</p><p>“It’s all right,” he says more gently. “It’s just the three of us. Nobody’s around to hear if we make a little noise.”</p><p>Tommy, breathless, chest heaving, nods and takes his hand off his mouth.</p><p>“Oh, you wicked bastard,” he says almost admiringly, making Jonathan laugh.</p><p>Elizabeth’s hands slide around Tommy’s torso, past the open shirt and waistcoat. When they find naked skin Tommy shivers while she lets out a long, low hum.</p><p>“When you make love,” she murmurs, “<em>that</em> way, is it always… Tom inside you?”</p><p>“No, not always.”</p><p>God, talking about this feels so <em>strange</em>. A lot of what goes on between him and Tommy usually goes unsaid. They have never really questioned the tacit agreement they have about this, that two times out of three Tommy is the one who gives. All Jonathan knows is that the first time Tommy’s caresses went from outside to inside all he could think about was that this was something he liked, a <em>lot</em>. Not that he doesn’t love having Tommy wrapped up around him, arms and legs and body, so tightly the world just disappears around them; making love to Tommy Ferguson, giving him everything he has, and making him cry out with pleasure has to be one of the very best sensations in the world.</p><p>But it’s difficult for Jonathan to <em>voice</em> this. Which is ironic, considering how much he tends to let his mouth run off on a regular basis.</p><p>Tommy nuzzles his neck, breaking his train of thought. Or not, actually.</p><p>“We, er – we’re really quite fond of each other,” Jonathan adds, because there’s still a slight curiosity in Elizabeth’s half-closed eyes, “inside and out. Which one is inside the other doesn’t really matter. It’s not something we’ve done often anyway, not when we always had to wait till all the rooms around ours were empty to do it. Otherwise the whole floor would have heard us.”</p><p>“Because you got ‘noisy’?”</p><p>“God, yes,” Tommy half-moans, which might be a reply to Elizabeth’s question or in response to the four hands running over his skin and the bodies surrounding his own. Jonathan presses himself against him, chest to knee, delighted to pay him back in his own coin. It doesn’t take much until he’s in the same state of undress – and near-incoherency – as Jonathan.</p><p>Time to cool things off a bit, otherwise fireworks might go off too early for them to enjoy it.</p><p>While Jonathan sits on the bed to take off his shoes (and his socks and garters), Elizabeth undoes her skirt and delicately steps out of it. Both the petticoat she has on underneath and the corset cover she’s still wearing are white, soft light fabric that rustles around her in a completely different way than her flannel skirt did. It reminds him of the dress she wore at the ball: white always seems to make her freckles stand out even more vividly than they usually do. The entire length of her arms are covered in them, small light hairs raised.</p><p>Then, as Tommy sits on the bed as well to take off his own shoes, she undoes the buttons of her corset cover and takes it off.</p><p>And joins them on the bed, very close to Tommy.</p><p>She still has a chemise under her corset, her drawers underneath, and the feet that peek from under her petticoat still have their white stockings. All Jonathan and Tommy have on is their underwear. It’s strange, wearing essentially naught but skin right beside someone who is still covered from chest to toe, except the arms.</p><p>Elizabeth hesitantly lays her hand on Tommy’s thigh, runs her fingers through the little hairs there that grown downwards, towards his knee. Jonathan sees her gaze go up a little bit, to Tommy’s drawers, where the fabric is straining. Her whole face turns so red her freckles seem to fade.</p><p>“I have no idea what I’m supposed to do from here,” she admits, tremulously. Tommy lays a hand on her cheek, lets it follow a downward line along her neck, before cupping her shoulder.</p><p>“Me neither,” he says, “but I don’t think you’re ‘supposed’ to do anything.” When her eyes go round he hastily adds, “I mean, forget ‘supposed’ – what do you actually <em>want</em> to do?”</p><p>“I want to see you,” she blurts out. “All of you. I mean, both. The entire you. Oh, Heavens, what must I sound like –”</p><p>Tommy kisses her, and she melts against his mouth with what looks like a no small amount of relief. Jonathan smiles.</p><p>“All right, then.”</p><p>He stands up, pushes down his drawers, and – to cover for how unexpectedly nervous it makes him – throws them with a flourish to where the rest of his clothes lie in a heap. The next moment, Tommy does the same, and sits cross-legged in the middle of the bed. He appears rather self-conscious, as well.</p><p>Elizabeth makes to turn towards the two of them and lets out a frustrated noise when her corset doesn’t quite allow the movement. Like most modern corsets, it’s a mostly underbust affair which hugs her body all the way down to her hips. It takes her a surprisingly short time to unclip the garters and undo all the fastenings at the front, though she also has to take off her petticoat to do so. When she’s done she sits on the bed with one leg tucked under her, grips her fingers, and looks at Tommy and Jonathan.</p><p>Without the long bulk of white fabric around her legs and the armour the corset provided her, Elizabeth looks tiny. She’s clearly tense – they all are, to a certain extent – but curiosity is starting to overpower nerves. Her eyes roam over Tommy, over Jonathan, who is seized by the sudden fear that she might not like what she sees. Goodness knows he’s not the best specimen of proud English manhood she could find. At least Tommy has some muscle.</p><p>Then her gaze goes down, her head tilts, and the apprehension abruptly makes way for a kind of bashfulness Jonathan has never felt before. What if she wants to… well, compare?</p><p>“What are you thinkin’?” asks Tommy, who is obviously braver than he is. Elizabeth’s mouth opens and closes.</p><p>“Well, it looks… odd.”</p><p>“It en’t, though. It’s just part of me. You know, like a nose, a leg, an arm.”</p><p>“Only a lot more sensitive,” Jonathan pipes up, fighting the urge to cover his.</p><p>Elizabeth still appears curious.</p><p>“How sensitive?”</p><p>“Very,” says Tommy. “Sometimes we see stars just rubbin’ it.”</p><p>“What do you mea—oh, as in – <em>ooh</em>.”</p><p>Jonathan is absolutely unprepared for the way Elizabeth licks her lower lip and squirms. It undoes something within him, though he’s not quite sure what.</p><p>“I may have, er, experimented a little on my own,” she says, her face incandescent. “With – with touching. And caressing, and rubbing. I know it’s not… but it felt <em>so</em>…” She stops, stares at Jonathan. “Is that what you meant, earlier? What we could do that – that would be safe?”</p><p>Jonathan inches closer, trying to ignore the way Elizabeth’s eyebrows go up as she looks down and <em>stares</em>, and picks up her hand.</p><p>“If you still want to,” he says as gently as he can, “then yes, exactly.”</p><p>Elizabeth nods. Then she leans in, and as she kisses him she slowly pushes him back until his shoulders are resting against Tommy’s chest. There is something instinctive to the way Tommy’s arms close around him. It’s exactly the sort of instinct that is Jonathan’s favourite. The same instinct makes him reach for Elizabeth’s thighs as she sits up on her knees in front of them. She stills for a moment, looking down at the two of them, and this time the expression on her face is absolute naked fondness. She lays a hand on Jonathan’s knee, caresses Tommy’s forearm, and smiles.</p><p>Jonathan squirms a little.</p><p>“I hope, er, everything is to your liking. I know I’m not exactly—”</p><p>“Oh, hush,” she says quietly. Her palms go from knee to thigh, from forearm to chest, and for a while Jonathan and Tommy sit utterly still while Elizabeth explores slowly. It’s only when she moves very close to the two of them – one hand mapping Tommy’s back, the other tracing down Jonathan’s ribcage – that Jonathan realises he’s holding his breath, and how hard Tommy’s heart is thumping, there, against his back. By rights he shouldn’t be nervous, or at least no more than he was the first time he and Tommy opened the jar of petroleum jelly. But these are exceptional circumstances.</p><p>At least, that’s what he tells himself.</p><p>Elizabeth’s touch is warm, tender, gaining purpose as her self-confidence grows. Curiously, it also helps uncoil whatever got a little tense in Jonathan’s stomach, and he feels Tommy relax against him, too. When she stops moving, one hand splayed on Tommy’s shoulder and the other on Jonathan’s chest, she kisses Jonathan and smiles.</p><p>“You’re beautiful. Both of you.”</p><p>And, before he or Tommy can either object or comment – it’s not like they’re normally comfortable handing over compliments to each other this easily, after all – she adds, “And I’m overdressed. Please excuse me for a second.”</p><p>On this incongruously well-mannered note, she strips off her stockings, removes her drawers, and – after a second or two of hesitation – pulls her chemise over her head. Then she sits back on her ankles, shoulders tense and a little hunched, one hand gripping her other arm. And looks up at them.</p><p>Elizabeth wearing an evening gown and a wide smile, flushed and a little bit breathless from high spirits and what might have been desire after all, was beautiful. Elizabeth wearing only her skin and her freckles, slouching slightly instead of her usual ramrod-straight stance, self-conscious and hesitant but hopeful, is breathtaking. Her arms are long and slender, her thighs full, her breasts small and round; her hunched posture makes a little roll on her stomach. There is a little bit of curly hair under her armpits, barely visible in her position, and her body is covered in goosebumps. She has knobbly knees and a beauty spot just under her navel.</p><p>And she might just be the most wonderful sight Jonathan has ever seen.</p><p>His brain is in utter chaos right now. Between a part of him that points out, quite unnecessarily, <em>Are you aware you are naked on a bed with two other people, also naked?</em>, another that hisses <em>Have you any idea how shameful that is? How Wrong it makes you?</em>, and everything that clamours in his head <em>ElizabethTommyELIZABETHTOMMY</em> on a loop, he has no room at all for coherent thought. All he can do is let his mouth drop open and breathe, “Oh, <em>Elizabeth</em>.”</p><p>Against him, Tommy makes a choked noise. Unlike Jonathan, he seems to come back to his senses quickly. He makes his way to her, lays his hands on the sides of her thighs, her buttocks, her hips, pure marvel on his face, and oh, Jonathan needs to amend his earlier thought. This, <em>they</em> are the most wonderful sight he’s ever seen.</p><p>“You,” says Tommy reverently, “are gorgeous.”</p><p>Elizabeth’s uncertain expression wobbles into a smile.</p><p>They both are. And Jonathan can be there, he can want, he can watch, and <em>he can</em> <em>join them</em>.</p><p>So he does.</p><p>Jonathan sits behind Elizabeth, and while she draws Tommy to her and <em>moans</em> (the sound goes straight to the pit Jonathan’s stomach and lights up a firestorm) he unties the ribbon of her plait and starts taking the pins out of her hair.</p><p>It takes longer than it would if everything inside Jonathan wasn’t complete pandemonium. But God, is it worth it. When he’s done her dark red hair cascades down her back, frizzes and curls flying everywhere, and as he brushes some of it aside to kiss her shoulder, Tommy leans in and kisses him.</p><p>Two people. Jonathan is in bed with two people. Jonathan is <em>in</em> <em>love</em> with two people. Who are with him, right there, in his arms and in each other’s. It boggles the mind, really.</p><p>The bed is just large enough for the three of them when they lie down – Jonathan, Elizabeth, Tommy – and let their hands get acquainted with each other’s body. The dance starts slow, slightly shy; Jonathan and Tommy are used to their own rhythms, and Elizabeth is a fast learner, but falling from a two-step into a waltz takes a bit of figuring out. Soon, however, hands aren’t enough and they are joined by mouths, tongues, arms, legs, bellies and chests. Skin calls for skin like lungs might call for air; they search, they kiss, they take, they offer all of themselves to each other.</p><p>And oh, the discoveries they make.</p><p>Rubbing as much of himself as he can against Tommy’s back and kissing Elizabeth while Tommy buries his face into her chest – arms tight, legs in a tangle, the same moan rising from three different throats – is a thing they can do, and it is mind-blowing. The sweet spot just above Tommy’s right hip that Jonathan loves to kiss makes Elizabeth curl up on herself with a squeal and almost knee him in the face, but brushing his lips on the inside of her thighs makes her eyes go round and her breathing quicken. Tommy shows her exactly how to draw a loud gasp from Jonathan by kissing the crook of his neck, and as Elizabeth takes his place and <em>bites</em> the gasp turns into a shout. She hardly even flinches when she puts her hand on Tommy and gives an experimental squeeze, then strokes him slowly, intently. Tommy throws his head back onto the pillow and grabs the back of her thighs with a whimper that dies in Jonathan’s mouth.</p><p>They forgot the petroleum jelly downstairs. The two little jars – one in Jonathan’s bedside table and the other in Tommy’s, because they actually have two beds to choose from now and they don’t want to take any chances – are waiting in their respective locked drawers, perfectly useless. Jonathan doesn’t even know how they might have used it; his whole being is aching for Elizabeth and Tommy and he has no idea whether he wants to have Tommy fill him while he holds Elizabeth and guides her on the path to bliss, or bury himself inside Tommy while Elizabeth is holding them both<span>.</span></p><p>All he knows is that he might break if he doesn’t touch them.</p><p>He sits up on his knees behind Elizabeth, presses himself against her and embraces her tightly with one arm –</p><p>(<em>and dear God, to feel her sweet round buttocks against his front, to cup one of her breasts and caress her nipple, to hear her high-pitched groan as she pushes back against him</em>)</p><p>– and runs his other hand over her stomach, the top of her thigh, and into the small tangle of dark hair between her legs.</p><p>When his fingers reach that secret place, moist and so warm, Elizabeth lets out a broken laugh tinged with relief. When he finds what he’s looking for, she lets her head fall back and gasps. When he starts stroking, playing, rubbing, she moves against him with complete abandon. Jonathan follows her rhythm while they both straddle Tommy, and the thought hits him like lightning that he will never love another dance again as much as he does this one.</p><p><em>I never want to have to</em> choose, he thinks wildly. Why pick one – one partner, one side, one way to let his heart and his body soar – over the other, when he loves both so bloody much?</p><p>Whether it’s Elizabeth’s strokes – strong and urgent now, almost frantic – or the view, which must be quite extraordinary from the front, Tommy barely has time to gasp “Oh <em>Liz</em>, I – oh Christ I’m going to—” before his whole body arches and he cries out.</p><p>Elizabeth instantly lets go like she’s been burned.</p><p>“Are you—What’s—?” she stammers. Jonathan moves his hand away a little to fold her in his arms properly and presses kisses into her nape. They are drenched in sweat but her skin feels like it’s on fire. So does he.</p><p>“It’s release,” he murmurs. “Just release. Don’t worry, it’s all right.” <em>I love you</em>. “It’s all right.”</p><p>In the breath that follows, Jonathan feels Tommy reach up for the two of them. After a bit of shuffling, Elizabeth lowers herself down, Jonathan stretched out against her side. Her arms, her legs take hold of him; Tommy lies just behind him, his front to his back. Jonathan can feel his hand slowly stroking his side from hips to ribcage, Tommy’s ragged breathing on the back of his neck, the sticky patch on his stomach from the climax that startled Elizabeth. Elizabeth who, he notes, is trembling a little, mouth partly open, hazel eyes very dark.</p><p>As close as he is right now, she might be even closer.</p><p>Still, better make sure.</p><p>“Do you still…” His voice is hoarse, his mouth dry. “Should I—?”</p><p>“Yes, <em>yes</em>,” she cuts him off, voice cracking, “oh God in heaven <em>yes</em>.”</p><p>It’s all the incentive he needs. He kisses her temple and reaches down again.</p><p>This time he slips in two of his fingers and goes a little deeper, teasing, caressing, exploring gently. Elizabeth, holding on his other arm as though to anchor herself, panting and moaning and pulsing around his hand, suddenly lets out a small astonished laugh. Jonathan’s heart does a somersault in his chest.</p><p>And then Tommy’s hand goes down, and down, and closes around his prick just as he presses his lips between Jonathan’s shoulder blades.</p><p>The simultaneous gestures are so warm, so tender, it feels like a kiss on both sides.</p><p>Elizabeth against him, Tommy around him; the sensations, the emotions, the smells, the sounds, are overwhelming. Jonathan teeters on the brink of the precipice, closes his eyes, and lets himself fall. Two pairs of arms catch him.</p><p>This time Elizabeth doesn’t react when he spills against her hip. She appears much too far gone to be shocked. Her whole body is trembling from head to toe, pushing against Jonathan’s hand. When he opens his eyes she throws her arms around him and pulls him to her, desperately. Jonathan hoists himself up on his arm and knees only to topple on the other side of her; Tommy crawls into the spot he just left and puts his arms around them.</p><p>“Liz,” he whispers thickly. “Oh, Liz. Oh, Jon.”</p><p>It sounds like three different words entirely.</p><p>Jonathan, half-lost in the warm haze that saps the strength from his muscles and makes his head swim, has barely enough cognizance to reach between Elizabeth’s legs again. Her lower body is almost curled up, knees high and thighs tightly pressed together in an effort to increase the friction. He has to ease her legs apart to make his way down to the small bud, and when he finds it she gives a breathless little laugh with just a hint of a sob.</p><p>Elizabeth clutches at Tommy’s hair with one hand and grasps Jonathan’s shoulder with the other, forcefully enough she’s raking her fingernails into his skin. Her eyes are screwed shut, her mouth is open. Between two wheezing breaths she cries out for them; their names are the last thing that leaves her throat before she goes rigid and lets out a long, drawn-out sigh, so high-pitched it’s almost a whine.</p><p>Jonathan and Tommy tighten their arms around her, around each other, and do their best to guide her through her climax.</p><p>For a long time, they hardly move at all. Their hands cup a breast, caress her stomach, trace the outside of her shoulder for the long seconds it takes for her shudders to die down. Sometimes her legs twitch a little.</p><p><em>We did that</em>, Jonathan thinks through the fog in his head, still not quite back on solid ground yet. Then his eyes drift to Tommy, in the same state, and the rush of affection is so powerful it makes him light-headed. <em>We did that to him, Elizabeth and I</em>.</p><p>His heartbeat is reverberating through his whole body, he can hardly move at all for exhaustion, and the warm glow that suffuses his chest and spreads to his stomach has yet to start fading. <em>They did that</em>. <em>We all did</em>.</p><p>Unbelievable.</p><p>There is a long, shaky inhale under Jonathan’s head. When he moves a little away from her shoulder, Elizabeth’s eyes are open. A tear is trickling from the corners, closely followed by another.</p><p>“Are you all right?” he asks, a little alarmed, before he realises she’s beaming.</p><p>“Y—yes,” she breathes. “Oh, I am. I don’t know why… Oh, my God. I never felt better.”</p><p>She’s still bright red, almost the shade of her hair streamed all over the pillows in curly waves. The arm still around Jonathan’s shoulders feels as utterly relaxed as the body against him. On the other side of her, Tommy blinks sluggishly and smiles. His eyes are half-closed and shining behind his wet fringe of hair.</p><p>Jonathan smiles back.</p><p>He has never felt better, either.</p><p>Elizabeth still has her right hand in Tommy’s hair, but her fingers aren’t gripping anymore. They’re stroking, carding, delicately smoothing the many knots and snarls. There is something almost hypnotic to the movement.</p><p>She blinks, eyes still glistening.</p><p>“I never knew… This is just…” She swallows. “<em>Being</em> with someone, I mean. I had no idea it could feel so…”</p><p>Ordinarily Jonathan might offer a few adjectives to fill in the blanks. Experience has given him a pick of suggestions. But this is the part where he knows better than try to run after his brain. He is too exhausted, too content, and too stunned to think.</p><p>They have just made love, the three of them. Profoundly enjoyed it, even. And unlike the first time this realisation struck him, he surrenders to the idea willingly, happily.</p><p>If he and Tommy can succeed in fooling the rest of the world, then so can he, Tommy, and Elizabeth. This time he’s not going to shove his feelings under the metaphorical carpet because he’s afraid. As terrifying as the prospect of getting found out is, being with Tommy and Elizabeth is worth everything. Even Jonathan Carnahan being honest with himself.</p><p>Besides, unlike the previous months, this time their only shelter from the world isn’t a room in halls, with other people behind every wall, constantly. They have a whole house to live in and to be themselves in. Once the front door is locked, they will be able to be as affectionate as they want, as silly as they want, as loud as they want, without the constant danger of someone walking in on them kissing, or hearing them loving each other. He and Tommy will be flatmates, Elizabeth their upstairs neighbour, and, as everyone else is concerned, everything will be upstanding.</p><p>They <em>can</em> have this, as long as they are careful.</p><p>Jonathan kisses Elizabeth’s breast near the tip, where the skin is darker, making her smile. She tastes like soap, sweat, and a little bit of something strange that must be spend, either hers or theirs, which someone smudged there: Jonathan’s hand is still slick, and Elizabeth’s own hand got a little sticky when Tommy came off. It should feel – it should <em>taste</em> – disgusting. Jonathan is very surprised to find himself not quite agreeing.</p><p>“Neither did I, not long ago,” says Tommy, his voice raspy. Jonathan’s brain has to do some catching up before he remembers what Elizabeth just said. “It’s been an interestin’ eight months.”</p><p>“Eight months…” Elizabeth sounds thoughtful. “Tom, does that mean you’d never… shared with anyone before Jonathan?”</p><p>Tommy smiles. “Not in a way that counts.” Then he looks a little sheepish. “Sorry I didn’t warn you earlier when I, erm. When it got too much. We should’ve told you it was going to happen.”</p><p>“Does that happen every time you… feel good? Because I – oh, dear.” Her hips shift, and she rubs her thighs together slightly, looking flustered. “I’m – I got a little, um. Damp.”</p><p>“It happens,” mumbles Jonathan against her skin. “When things run their course properly. If things are done well.” He can’t help a foolish grin. Both sentences apply here. They kissed, they explored, they made each other cry out, they brought each other to the highest heights. All three of them. He had no idea it was even possible.</p><p>The twitch of Elizabeth’s lips tells him she recognises the phrasing. Has it only been a couple of months since she asked them if a woman could feel carnal pleasure? It seems like ages ago.</p><p>The warm palm caressing his shoulder suddenly stops. Her arm, her whole body stiffens. When he looks up at her face again she appears dismayed.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” asks Tommy, raising his head a little. Elizabeth blushes deeply.</p><p>“I am ever so sorry. I didn’t – there was, um… Some of it got on my hand and now it’s on you, Jonathan.”</p><p>Jonathan blinks. The necessary cogs in his brain grind into motion. Then, and only then does he feel his ears warm up.</p><p>“Oh, er,” he says, “that’s all right. I think we all need to clean up a little, actually.”</p><p>That’s putting it mildly. The little amount of Tommy Elizabeth must have smeared on his shoulder is tiny compared to what’s on her hip, or his and Tommy’s stomachs.</p><p>Elizabeth raises her head from the pillow to follow his gaze down their bodies. Her eyes widen. She’s silent for a while; then, unexpectedly, a small chuckle escapes her.</p><p>“Goodness gracious. Is it always like this? So – so messy?”</p><p>“Mostly, yeah,” Tommy says, resignation in his tone. “Usually we make do with a wet cloth. Don’t think it’ll be enough this time, though.”</p><p>Elizabeth bends to kiss his hair.</p><p>“We’ll manage.”</p><p>The house has a bathroom on Jonathan’s and Tommy’s floor, separate from their flat, with – luxuries of luxuries – a bathtub with hot and cold running water. Elizabeth has a washbasin on the landing, and a tin bath and a bidet in her room. It’s enough. None of them is keen on going downstairs before they’re clean and clothed, even if the house <em>is</em> theirs. Stepping out of the bedroom to fill the pitcher wearing nothing but the traces of their lovemaking is making Jonathan’s ears burn enough.</p><p>Hot water takes a little while to travel through the pipes from the scullery. As a result the water is a little cool for comfort, even for a warm evening. They still enjoy taking turns at running the soap and dripping sponge over each other. In a way, they’re still exploring; everything feels new, even the familiar. As much as Jonathan has seen of Tommy – which is, well, everything, either from the changing room or the bedroom – watching him help Elizabeth pin her hair into a loose pile atop her head, skin to skin, freckles to freckles, takes his breath away. Elizabeth’s hand running over the trail of blond hairs from Tommy’s groin to his navel gives him a thrill he’s never felt before. The lightning-quick smile she gives when Jonathan squeezes the sponge between her breasts and water trickles down her front feels even more intimate than when he was kissing her inner thighs.</p><p>She pulls a frock from her trunk while they retrieve their clothes from the floor and put them back on, without bothering with stiff collars. And they assist each other with buttons and sashes, not because they need the help, but because it gives an excuse to keep their hands over one another.</p><p>As it turns out, Elizabeth McAllister doesn’t need a corset to stand up straight. Her posture is impeccable even in a soft tea gown and a shawl. That’s another thing Jonathan can’t quite believe he got to find out.</p><p>The sun is setting behind the windows, tinting everything in orange-red. Now Jonathan knows what his lovers look like with the sunset light in their hair – and they look beautiful. And he will get to see them in the morning sunshine, as well. Who gets <em>this</em> lucky?</p><p>One day, it will end, he knows it. Elizabeth was given three years of freedom before what amounts to being sentenced to life. He and Tommy only have two years to go in college, a little more if they want to pursue academic life further, though Jonathan doubts he has the necessary self-discipline. Tommy might, but what he lacks is the time and the means. Even with only thirty-five per cent of the rent to pay instead of fifty, a part-time job in a pub is not enough if he wants to do more than survive.</p><p>But, Jonathan thinks later as they’re all sharing a very late and very informal supper in the kitchen, in the meantime, they’re going to enjoy every moment. And what’s not to enjoy about the way Elizabeth laughs at something Tommy says, so completely at ease she smiles widely, protruding front teeth on display? Or the stray curls falling from her hasty chignon, the dishevelled state of Tommy’s own hair, or the way their eyes shine as they look at him?</p><p>Jonathan smiles back, a little crookedly.</p><p>God, he loves them so much.</p><p>(Perhaps he will tell Elizabeth someday. He seemed to have little choice in the matter where Tommy was concerned – the words burst out of him one night and he couldn’t have held them back if he had wanted to. But saying “I love you” to them both feels both daunting and complicated. Besides, things might get awkward if Elizabeth doesn’t actually reciprocates.)</p><p>Tommy has his job at the Turf, but they have still months before term starts again in October. Even accounting for the fact that Jonathan will spend time with his family at some point – he hasn’t seen his parents and sister for six months and he misses them fiercely, even with everything going on – they will have time to settle in, to get to live around each other and figure out the steps of <em>that</em> dance, maybe even learn to cook properly (Tommy insisted).</p><p>This summer 1914 is going to be the <em>best</em> summer.</p>
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  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote1anc" id="sdfootnote1sym" name="sdfootnote1sym">1</a>A room in which to store unneeded furniture and other various knick-knacks. In the context of Edwardian Britain, you know the house’s owner is rich when they can afford space that isn’t allocated to something specific.</p>
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  <p class="sdfootnote-western"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="#sdfootnote2anc" id="sdfootnote2sym" name="sdfootnote2sym">2</a>A tightly woven cloth created and used for making corsets. Which <em>were</em> restrictive, but not as much as Hollywood would have you believe.</p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I know, I know. But in some ways it will be the best summer ^^</p><p>It’s been such an adventure writing this. (They’re so YOUNG, my goodness.) I’ve written approximatively 10,000 words of Elizabeth’s story, <i>Valse à Trois Temps</i>, which is shaping up to be about the length of this one. I do have one chapter finished, but 1) my lovely beta is completely swamped with work at the moment, and 2) I’m not posting WIPs hoping I can finish them anymore (learned that lesson!). When I do post it, you’ll be sure to be able to read the end :o) In the meantime, I thought this would be a nice place to stop. They’re together, they’re in love, and they’ll be able to live that love away from prying eyes for a while. (No getting caught, don’t worry. They’re safe on that account.)</p><p>Thank you for reading, and thank you <i>so much</i> if you’ve left a comment. See you on the next story in the series? :o)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wrote “I have no idea who will even want to read this, but if you do and are kind enough to tell me you did, I will probably love you until the world ends” in the notes for <i>Pirouette</i>, and it still very much applies here. If you read this and liked (or not, I take all constructive criticism) it, <i>pleasepleaseplease</i> let me know!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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